


un arbol de almendra

by r_foudroye



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Asexual Javert, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Demisexual Valjean, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Character, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, Post-Seine, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romani Javert, Sort Of, because i am projecting onto these characters, because this is my fic and i make the rules, i dunno, i promise it's not all sad??? they get to be happy i promise, it'll make sense when you read it I promise, jewish Javert, moses AU, or maybe not, sephardi javert, so much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 15,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27707836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_foudroye/pseuds/r_foudroye
Summary: “She took a papyrus basket, daubed it with bitumen and pitch, and putting the child in it, placed it among the reeds of the bank of the Nile.” Exodus 2:3...they say that there are things that stick with you. things you never quite forget. Songs, for instance, from your childhood. The people who were kind in ways that changed your life. The people who were not.this is an exploration of identity and Self and two old men who are very much in love.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 22
Kudos: 49





	1. These Are The Names...

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is going to include HEAVY uses of songs in Ladino 
> 
> -
> 
> additional warnings will be in the beginning notes, for chapters that need them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended listening (added Officially after chapter 12)  
> adio kerida  
> durme durme  
> la galana i el mar

“She took a papyrus basket, daubed it with bitumen and pitch, and putting the child in it, placed it among the reeds of the bank of the Nile.” Exodus 2: 3

And so Ferenc Astruc Javert was cast into the water, wrapped in a fragment of shawl and clutching a deck of cards. He was found three days later, washed up on the sand, holding the cards and with a heavy necklace of gold coins wrapped double around his neck. A wedding present. The only thing his mother had left. He was found with these, and his name, and nothing else.

-

He was taken in by a family in the south, and lived with them for seven years. When he was old enough to ask questions, he was cast out upon the streets clutching his only possessions in an old carpet-bag. He had read of Lot, and his wife and a pillar of salt in the sands of Zoar, and he did not look back. Astruc Javert walked out onto the streets humming an old song of goodbye. He had never known his mother. He supposed she might have been beautiful. He packed the scrap of shawl in his bag and set out walking to nowhere.

_Me la amagrates tu..._

Ferenc Javert did not cut his hair. He did not know why. He only remembered a kind man from long ago, who saw him on the streets and took pity on him. He remembered long afternoons learning words and alphabets and to never speak those words around Frenchmen. Ferenc Javert had no family, but he supposed the gentle old man who taught him music and called him chavo was as close as he would ever get. 

-

Ferenc Javert had never met his father. He supposed that was for the best. After all, he supposed, why would the man have been imprisoned, if not for being a bad person?  
F. Javert clutched his copy of the Code Penal and stitched the necklace into the lining of his bag. 

-

Javert did not introduce himself with his names. His surname was French, and he supposed it was good enough. And anyway, who would take him seriously if they knew what his name meant? Who names their child something they are not? He supposed Astruc was even worse. Luck did nothing, only right conduct and justice made dust into men. 

-

Javert cut his hair short and felt the sharp tang of betrayal in his heart. But feelings meant nothing in the eyes of the law. He packed his cards away and tried to forget. 

_Durme, durme con savor._

Javert wandered for seven years. He ran messages for the police when he could, and walked along the ocean when there were none. He supposed he remembered something there, of when he was younger. He hummed a tune whose words he could not remember, and thought of his mother. He was not sure it was a good thing.

_Ya salió de la mar la galana,  
con vestido ‘al i blanco  
…  
Echate a la mar i alcanza… échate, échate a la mar. _

He turned away from the ocean. 

The old man had given him his great-grandfather’s oud and taught him to play. Javert packed it away in its canvas bag and tried to force his hands to forget the melodies they knew by heart. Em, D7, C/G, B. The chord progression that was the base to so many songs. G, Fm, G. Fm, Eb, D, G. An old song the man had taught him. 

He tried to remember the meaning of the words. 

_Tu prends mon âme et la fais pleurer._

He packed the oud away in its bag and mended a hole in the old canvas, sewing in a patch with careful, precise stitches. He covered it with a series of small knots. They took a familiar shape. Libra. The stars, justice- infallible, constant, steady like his life had never been. Perfect. 

-

He got a job working as a guard in a prison. He did not know it was the same place he had been born. (He would not have cared, then, had he known.) So he did his job, and he did his job well. Javert had no family, and he had no name. 

Not two years later, Jean Valjean was thrown into the gaping maw of Hell, clinging to his name, memories of his family, all he had. Javert saw this, and turned away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs used in this chapter are-  
> adio kerida  
> durme durme  
> la galana i el mar  
> iag bari
> 
> (lyric translations)  
> me la amagrates tu- "you made [my life] bitter"  
> durme, durme con savor- "sleep, sleep well"  
> ya salio...- "the maiden has come out of the sea, dressed in rose and white... throw youself into the sea and reach [him], throw yourself into the sea"


	2. myrtle

MONTREUIL.

The sea was not near Montreuil. It had left, the shoreline receded long ago. Whatever parts of his past Javert had held on to had long dried up, the oud and carpet-bag hidden safely in his apartments. He drafted a letter. He crumpled it into the bin. He drafted another. It sat on his desk, half-finished.

The old man passed away, and Javert never heard of it. 

He crumpled the letter. He started another. M. le Maire pressed a rosary into his hand. He sent the letter. 

Fantine was dead, and Monsieur Madeleine was Jean Valjean. Javert had not cared to read the transcript of the trial. He moved to Paris and did not think of the ocean. 


	3. paris, part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so chapters 1-3 were originally one long chapter, but that felt too clunky so now you get three short chapters instead

Javert did not have a community. He did not have friends. He was hated by many, and feared by even more. His fellows at the Prefecture balked at his scowl and laughed at him behind his back. He had not heard Calo in many years, and Ladino in even more. That was fine. It was the way it had always been. 

Night fell, and he headed to his apartments. Across the square, a group of rowdy students were stumbling out of a bar, laughing amongst themselves and singing out of tune.  
Javert scowled and barked at them to head home. He had not walked more than a block before the strains of a familiar old song filtered into his mind. 

_Madam Gashpar salyo al charshi, kun il dinaro di Purim,_

He shook his head. The click-clack of his boot heels sounded sharp against the stones.  
He had not sung since he was a child. 

-

The oud seemed smaller than he remembered. He played a note. And another. The start to a song he did not quite remember. 

_Mos creció un árbol de almendra…_

The instrument needed tuning, anyway.  
He put it back in its bag.  
He slept that night and dreamt of the ocean. 

_A woman wades through the waters, holding a small bundle in her arms. Neither of them utter any sound, except for the woman’s quiet prayers. She whispers a lullaby as the waters close in around her elbows.  
Shouts echo from the beach. The clatter of heavy footsteps against the pebbles. The woman wraps her bundle in her veil, enclosing her only possessions in its folds. She knows she will not live long, after this. She is a prisoner and the guards are cruel. She casts her son into the water and prays. There is no poetry here, no ceremony, only a scared young woman entrusting her son to the waves. _

_Javert does not know what happens next._

He woke with a start. 

Shaking, he crossed his bedroom and opened his carpet-bag. He pulled out his deck of cards and shuffled it. He drew three. 

His past. L’Etoile. alienation from one’s true nature.  
Present. Neuf d’Epee. Reversed. An opportunity for new growth. A light at the end of a tunnel.  
Future. Deux D’Epee. Reversed. Conflicting ideals. Non-action is the best plan. 

He frowned. He wrapped the deck in the scrap of shawl and stored it in his bag.  
He supposed the cards were just cards. 

_Her hands were quick and swift as she shuffled the deck. She drew ten cards and laid them in a complicated arrangement. She tapped a card while her son looked on, too young to understand. “Ya ves, Ferko? Each card is a mirror. It will only show you what you see in it. Nothing more. You cannot simply read their meanings from a book. They must have meaning in your heart. Entiendes?”  
She looked over the cards with a furrowed brow. After a moment, she swept them up and hid them in her skirts. “It is what it is, Ferko. It is like this for me. Fue mi mazal, mi sustiri. But you! You can be free! You are Astruc, suerte, mazal, estreya. You will be free, and you will rise above anything I am or could have been. You will make me proud, cherdilli.” _

But he did not remember this. He had taught himself not to.  
He put on his greatcoat and headed to the Prefecture. 

_He stood in front of a man. The sea-scent hung heavy in the air. He could taste the salt on the wind. Four men held the prisoner down. The lash hung heavy in his hand. Next to him, his superior nodded, and he raised the lash. He swung it down, the body flinched, and his mother’s eyes burned in the back of his mind._

Inspector Javert got home that day and tied a red string around his wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the students are, in fact, singing madam gashpar  
> (just very badly and very off-key)  
> ( i know for a fact that there's a single student in that group who studies music and that they're trying to harmonize with everyone at once)
> 
> songs used in this chapter are-  
> madam gashpar  
> la galana i el mar
> 
> (lyric translations)  
> madam gashpar...- "madam gashpar went to market, with the money from Purim"  
> mos crecio un arbol de almendra- "[between the ocean and the sand] there grew an almond tree"


	4. paris, part II- Sea of Reeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tracht un tracht a gantse nacht.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for this one! it mentions/ describes Javert's toaster-bath attempt
> 
> also some funky dreams
> 
> recommended listening:  
> Landariko. legit just listen to landariko  
> la galana i el mar (aman aman)

He should have died. He should have been slaughtered there, like the ram in Moriah.  
But instead, he was saved, and he could not live with himself because of it.  
He watched as a corpse was dragged through the filth, and thought of his mother. 

He had never known her. 

He was the reason why a child had never truly known her own mother.  
He hated himself, and all he had become. 

And standing there, outside the door, he heard the cry, louder than ever, in his mind. The waves of the ocean, the rushing of the Seine. The beginnings of a note, played by an old man. His tia, teaching him the lyrics, pointing at the sea, illustrating the story with her words. 

_Echate a la mar y alcanza, echate a la mar._

Genesis 3:19. “For dust you are, and to dust you shall return.”

He was pulled from the waters, and now to them he would deliver himself. 

...

_And there in the waters, he found his humanity._

...

He plunged into the Seine. The waters closed in around him, pressing in from all sides. He closed his eyes and thought of his mother. 

_She was dragged back to the prison by the guards. Her clothes were torn and soaked, and her skirts dragged heavy with seawater. A guard shoved her to her knees. He raised the lash. Ziboris Javert bowed her head and prayed._

A shout. Another splash. The waters parted for him. There was no sea of reeds here, though, only endless silt and water and darkness that opened its arms. _Lache avilan._ Welcome. 

A hand closed around the half-capes on his coat and _pulled._ Water flooded into his lungs. Javert passed out soon after. The waters had taken him as one of their own. 

And Javert dreamt. 

The waters became dry land. The old man showed him the Bible he kept on his shelf. His aunt recited the prayer for the dead. His mother sang to him, in French and Calo and Ladino, songs of fountains and stars and almond-trees. Always in his dreams, the pitching and roiling of the sea that would not let him drown, the dreaded constant that was Jean Valjean, the bitter guilt.  
He raised the lash while a prisoner writhed and flinched on the ground, his back already scarred through with old lash-marks. Another escape attempt, the second from this particular prisoner. The man pushed off a guard with his inhuman strength and turned to face Javert. He recoiled. His mother’s face stared back at him, her eyes sorrowful yet full of pride. A voice echoed in his mind. _Suerte, mazal, sustiri._ Anything I am or could have been. _Cherdilli._ His eyes widened in fear and shame, and he ran. He ran until he found the desert.

A rock poured out water, but not for him. 

Instead, he choked on dry sand and seawater, and the birds came to pick at his heart. He ran still more, his very soul burning and charring under the scorching sun. There was no shade, there, only heat and guilt and pain. Night fell, and no stars appeared. The prison guards came to find him, and the old man and Valjean, and they grabbed his arms and pulled him to a prison where there was no sea. He cried out and fought and screamed, but his throat was parched and dry and the water rushed in his ears and lapped at his feet and he was being carried away into the river and-

_He had failed._

He woke up. An unfamiliar room, heavy curtains, a worn wood desk. A head of white hair bowed in fervent prayer, hands clasped on the bed by his side, so close he could touch them. Javert scowled. His cheeks were wet with tears and silt-water. 

_Valjean._

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, push the man away, arrest him, beg for forgiveness. But his body was racked with horrid choking coughs, great shuddering convulsions that tasted of silt, and the man kneeling on the floor by his side looked up.  
No fear was in his gaze, only concern and awful, humiliating relief.  
Javert was hit with another wave of coughs, and when he looked up, Valjean was gone.

He slipped again into fretful sleep. He was vaguely aware of something cold being pressed against his burning forehead. A whispered prayer, the sound of the sea. When had he started losing his humanity? 

He had not seen the ocean in so long. 

He ached with loss and guilt, and under his breath whispered a prayer from long ago.  
His aunt’s voice echoed in his ears. 

_Ya salió de la mar._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs used in this chapter are-  
> la galana i el mar  
> ( i use this one a lot.,,., i recommend the version by Aman Aman)
> 
> (lyric translations)  
> echate a la mar i alcanza, echate a la mar- "throw yourself to the sea and reach [him], throw youself into the sea"  
> ya salio de la mar- "they have come out of the sea"


	5. paris, part III- landariko

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Landariko is a song, written in Haketia.
> 
> quick warning for this one! mentions of food/cooking/etc. beginning at "javert went to the market" and ending at "a knock at his door"
> 
> recommended listening:  
> landariko (hadass pal-yarden version)  
> la'spozica (la galana i el mar) (coro de camara eli hoshana version)

PARIS, PART III- THE SEINE

Days passed. Weeks, months, half a year. 

His footsteps echoed in the cavernous halls.  
Lux nova, colored light.  
He could almost hear--

_Ayula lavando el rostro,  
De dormi se levantara, i un espejo kristalino-_

He strode out of the cathedral.  
Walked to the riverbank. Descended the stairs.  
This was not the ocean, not his place, not his home.  
But where else would it be?

His mother had lived by the sea, when she met his father. He was from a town of hills and pilgrims, ancient buildings and blood-red fruits. She was born at the mouth of the Guadalquivir, where the olive trees grew gnarled and a medieval tower loomed over old stone walls and citrus-trees.  
But Javert? He belonged nowhere, to no one. 

_Valjean sat on his armchair, as he always did in the evenings, with a cup of tea and a book. Javert strode past. Valjean started from his seat-  
“I am leaving. Do not attempt to contact me. You have done enough. Adieu.”  
“J- Inspector.”  
“Monsieur?”  
Valjean stared wordlessly as Javert turned to face him, standing in the doorway.  
“I will not arrest you now, or ever. Do not trouble yourself with that.”  
“It is not that, just- will you, yourself, be safe?”  
“I am with the Paris Police. I do not think that question can be answered. But I will try.”  
And in a flurry of half-capes, he was gone, and Valjean was left standing in an empty house. _

Javert turned and went home. 

The next day, Javert went to the market. 

_Si savej la mi sinyora, i pur kuanto lo merki_

Aubergine, garlic, cured cheese. Olive oil. 

Roast and peel the aubergines. Mash them with a wooden spoon.  
_“Con cuidado, muchacho-”_  
Beat the cheese and eggs. add bread, gruyere, oil.  
Add the aubergines. Mix well. Pour into an oiled pan.  
_The old man liked to cook with goose fat.  
His aunt only used oil from Spain- “it tastes better.”_  
Bake. 

_His aunt’s hands, chopping and mixing.  
His mother’s voice, singing an old song from her childhood. _

Cool the dish on the table.  
_His aunt always covered it with a clean embroidered cloth._

-

_Esta comida la llaman, la comida el almodrote._

-

A knock at his door. A letter. From a Baronne Cosette Pontmercy, asking him to check on her father. Apparently he was the only visitor Valjean had entertained in a long time. Apparently Mme. Pontmercy had not heard of her father as of late. 

Javert pulled on his greatcoat and strode out onto the street. 

A knock at a door. The shuffling of steps. Valjean opened the door.

__  
Javert tossed and turned, his skin burning hot under his shirt.  
Valjean knew of no one who he could call, no relatives, no friends. 

_Javert had no one._

_And Valjean ached to know it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the songs used in this chapter are-  
> landariko  
> madam gashpar  
> siete modos de guisar la berenjena
> 
> (lyric translations)  
> ayula lavando el rosto..- "she is washing her face, from sleep she is risen, and a crystalline mirror-"  
> si savej la mi sinyora.. - "do you know, my lady, for how much i bought it?"  
> esta comida la llaman..- "this food it is called, the food almodrote."  
> (almodrote is a very old, very traditional dish- i think it dates back to the 1400s)


	6. paris, part IV- la rosa enflorece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mi alma s'eskurese...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended listening:   
> la rose enflorece (ariana saraha version) (or your favorite)  
> scalerica de oro (aman aman)   
> la galana i el mar (aman aman)

Javert pressed a hand to Valjean’s forehead. 

_Una sopa, de caldo y con poca yerba de sabor fuerte._

No fever. Possible exhaustion. Javert grimaced and looked at the man passed out on the bed. The bones were visible in his hands. 

Javert called for a doctor. 

-

_He was pulled from the ocean, found on the sands with seafoam on his brow.  
His aunt had three children, by blood. She had found one more, she said, by the grace of G-d. _

_-_

_Javert had been saved twice, now.  
It had been years since he had prayed.  
...  
The rushing of the Seine was present in every word he spoke, the waters wrapping currents around his every word, forming eddies and oxbows in his thoughts. He trembled with the weight of it. _

-  
_Entre la mar y el rio…_  
-

“He is.. Very sick. Exhaustion, malnutrition, grief. It is lucky you called me now. He would not have lasted much longer- he is half-dead of starvation already.”  
“Is there anything that can be done to help him?”  
“...You are sure I cannot remove his shirt? There may be signs of something else there if i could-”  
“No.”  
“... Then there is nothing more I can do. If he wakes-”  
“ _When-_ ”  
“... _when_ he wakes, be sure to give him water, first. Before you try to give him anything else. Truly, it is lucky you found him when you did. If you are lucky again, he might recover fully.”

 _Luck. Suerte, mazal, sustiri. Baxt. Astruc, born under a lucky star._

“Monsieur, how much-”  
“I will not charge you, monsieur, for speaking only words.” 

...

_Que mos tenga un mazal bueno._

...

He thought of the stars. Of constellations, of the moon reflected on the ocean. Of faint lights in the vast emptiness of space, on that fourth day. Of his mother, and his aunt, and the old man, pointing out patterns, calling each star by name. Of Libra, stitched into old canvas. Of a deck of cards, wrapped in old cloth, and his shaking, scarred hands pulling a star from the deck like was he from the waters, of distance and nature and Self. He thought of Valjean, always running, always hiding, Valjean who had twice saved him, Valjean who had cared for him, at great personal risk. Of Valjean and his rough hands pressing a damp cloth to Javert’s forehead, or unconsciously worrying at his sleeve cuffs during those last days Javert lived with him. Of those same hands, now frail and trembling in Valjean’s fitful sleep. 

-

_And for the first time in years, Javert bowed his head and prayed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs used in this chapter:  
> la galana i el mar  
> scalerica de oro
> 
> (lyric translations)  
> entre la mar i el rio- "between the ocean and the river..."  
> que mos tenga un mazal bueno- "that they may have good fortune"


	7. paris, part v- naomi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> recommended listening:  
> un dia antes (voice of the turtle version)  
> en la mar hay una torre (eduardo darnauchans version)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhhhh big warning for this one lads
> 
> (toulon, javert's toaster-bath, nightmares and flashbacks, etc)
> 
> (this is kind of a heavy one, y'all)
> 
> also, I tried to handle this accurately and respectfully, but if y'all would like me to change anything i will of course do so-!

“Wherever you go I will go,  
Wherever you lodge I will lodge.”  
Ruth 1:16

And Valjean slept.  
He dreamt of pain and heat and the stench of the sea. He dreamt of his sister and Cosette and a life he might have had. He dreamt of an ever-present shadow, always around the corner, haunting him in a faded top hat and a worn wool greatcoat.  
And he tossed and turned and-  
And he woke.  
And he saw that selfsame shadow at his side. 

_Valjean held a damp cloth to Javert’s burning forehead. He washed the faded greatcoat and mended a hole in its lining. He found an old rosary in its pocket. Jet-bead. He kept looking for something, anything, anyone he could notify. He found a hamsa in an inner pocket. It felt wrong, to rummage through the Inspector’s life like this. Valjean hung the coat to dry._

Dread pooled in Valjean’s stomach, choking him in its cold constrictive grasp. His heart was ice; it felt like it had both stopped beating entirely and doubled its pace. He felt phantom iron around him as the shadow reached out a hand. _Oh g-d, the lash, the- he steeled himself for the inevitable blow, the pain, the shouts, the wound, the silence after, the stale air, the sting of salt, the-_  
Valjean flinched and scrambled back, running, always running, he had been so close, and now--

_Cold. And pain. A room where he sat, alone, chained to the wall with the blood drying on his back. Darkness, stale air. Pain.  
Pain. _

_Pain._

The shadow knelt at his side. _No. This is wrong._ Held out a hand. _The lash-_ Offered him something- water?  
_A trap? Would he try to grasp it, only to be rewarded with taunts and kicks and-_  
He shakily reached out for it, half-expecting it to be wrenched away and replaced with more pain.  
But he held the glass in his shaking hands, and-

_Javert opened his eyes. Valjean held out the bowl of broth he was holding. Maybe this time Javert would accept. The inspector scowled. Ah well. Valjean left the bowl on the nightstand and walked out of the room._

_He came back an hour later to find the bowl empty and the Inspector in a deep sleep._

The look of relief in the shadow’s eyes was... strange.  
Why would-  
_A man, sound asleep, his greying hair fanned out over the pillow, looking more at peace than Valjean had ever seen him, but still with a slight furrow in his brow._

_He would wake up choking on nothing, coughing as if on saltwater, whispering broken words with a too-dry throat. He would flounder in his sleep and wake as if expecting to be six feet underwater with the currents crushing him. He would shake and snap and stare emptily at the wall. He would push Valjean away with shaking hands and clutch at his shattered leg and bruised ribs and mumble words in a language Valjean did not know. He would toss and turn and clutch at empty air, and stare at nothing with his pale blue eyes._

_But never, not once, did he cry._

_And Valjean ached to know it._

And context came back, bit by bit, in cotton sheets and old wool coats and the scent of broth, in whatever his senses could piece together, and Valjean clutched at his shirtsleeves with too-thin hands and cried. 

_He cried so quietly. He barely moved, barely made a sound. As if to avoid any notice._  
...  
_Perdoname. No mereses aver sufrido tanto. No lo mereses tu._  
...

Valjean cried himself to sleep.  
Javert saw this, and sat vigil in his armchair, and thought of his mother. 

“Y Simsi el escribano,  
Se mataba con sus manos,  
No dejaba hueso y sano...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about this one, y'all
> 
> songs used:  
> un dia antes/el testamento de aman/esta noche de Purim
> 
> (lyric translations)  
> Y Simsi el escribano, - "and Simsi the scribe,  
> Se mataba con sus manos, - died by his own hand  
> No dejaba hueso y sano... - broke all his bones..."


	8. paris part vi- puñies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sad old man hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for mentions of suicide  
> and for mentions of feeling like a burden, bad mental health, etc.
> 
> recommended listening:  
> las estreyas (consuelo luz)

_Javert left Valjean’s home, walked away from the warm fires and kind smiles and hesitation, and moved back into his old apartments.  
He walked across the Pont au Change every day. He clutched his aunt’s hamsa and fiddled with his shirtsleeves and pretended he did not hear the rushing of the river at his feet. Pretended he had not thrown himself into its freezing oblivion. Pretended he had not been saved. Pretended his world had not been shattered (like a stained-glass window or a family heirloom or a sheet of ice over the water) as he was dragged from the waters, as it had before on the bridge, as it had a thousand times since then.  
He walked across the river and pretended he did not feel his soul ripping in two. _

-  
_Ten pasiensia kon ti, kerida  
En estos dias espera tu avenir_  
-

Valjean was ill.  
Very ill.  
His limp was more pronounced and his hands shook more than they ever did and sometimes he flinched at the slightest sounds, but he was alive. 

He was alive, and Javert thanked G-d for it. 

He drank broth and water and sometimes tea when he felt well enough for it. He read. He read aloud, sometimes, little by little, whatever he could manage, while Javert sat vigil in his armchair. 

And one morning, as the scent of almond-and-orange cakes drifted through the apartment and the soft gold sunlight cast a pattern on the floor, Valjean reached out a shaking hand and caught Javert’s shirtsleeve.  
“... Inspector.”  
“... Do not call me that.”  
“Javert, then.”  
His hands tangled further in Javert’s sleeve.  
“I am... sorry. For causing you so much trouble. I did not wish to be a burden on you so.”  
“What.”  
“Truly, I do not deserve such- kindness, such generosity. Truly, I am sorry for being an imposition-”  
_“You stupid man, what are you talking about-”_  
“I did not mean to be a burden on you, but I will leave soon, I apologize, I assure you I will repay-”  
_“Repay- je- tu- Ombre bovo, ke keres? Ke no te ayude? Despues de- de todo lo que has echo?”_  
“Q- quoi-”  
_“Y que? Mejor que te deshara ahi en la kaye? Casi muerto, con la puerta abierta?”_  
“I- je ne- je ne comprends pas- i only-”  
_“Y? Y ke si te mueres? Ce serait très égoïste d' aller te tuer après de me sauver, non? Ombre bovo, ke kreyes? Kreyes que no hay algun en este mundo a ken le importas?”_  
He surged forward and seized Valjean by the shoulders.  
_“People care about you, Jean Valjean-!”_  
“I -”  
Valjean sagged in Javert’s grasp.  
“... i didn’t...- think it would... hurt anyone. I didn’t think anyone would care. I thought...I-”  
He shrank into himself further. Javert let go of Valjean and turned to leave. 

“I thought I was helping people..”  
“By killing yourself?”

A single, muffled sob. 

Javert turned, standing there, one hand on the doorframe.  
“... I didn’t either.” 

Another sob, even more muffled. 

Footsteps.  
A rustle. A shift in weight, a dip in the bed.  
And for the first time, Ferenc Astruc Javert held Valjean in his arms and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Javert 100% made those almond-and-orange cakes 
> 
> song used:  
> Las Estreyas
> 
> (lyric translations)  
> Ten pasiensia kon ti, kerida - be patient with yourself, beloved  
> En estos dias espera tu avenir - in these days hope for your future
> 
> (additional)  
> \- Ombre bovo, ke keres? Ke no te ayude? Despues de- de todo lo que has echo?-  
> " stupid man, what do you want? for me to not help you? after- after all you've done?"
> 
> \- Y que? Mejor que te deshara ahi en la kaye? Casi muerto, con la puerta abierta?  
> "and? better that i left you there, in the street? half-dead, with the door open?"
> 
> \- Y? Y ke si te mueres? Ce serait très égoïste d' aller te tuer après de me sauver, non? Ombre bovo, ke kreyes? Kreyes que no hay algun en este mundo a ken le importas?  
> "and? and what if you die? (french) it would be very selfish to go k1ll y0urself after saving me, no? stupid man, what do you think? do you think there is no one in this world to whom you matter?"


	9. el becerro, la golondrina, y las cadenas de sal. seccion 1- la luna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title for this section comes from "dos kelbl" 
> 
> cw/tw: blood mention, su1c1dal ideation/ (canonical) attempt (on javert's part)
> 
> recommended listening:  
> yo me akordo d*akeya noche (trio sefardi)

_Javert drowned. The salt-sea currents dragged him into oblivion and sent him gasping to the surface, a child’s wooden boat lost in a hurricane. He was suffocating with the weight of the sea (the weight of his sins, an arrow that missed its mark once too many times), the weight of his mother’s sacrifice, the weight of the blood on his hands. A weight he could not bear any longer, a guilt he could not tolerate._

_His lungs filled with water._

-

“Then take a bunch of hyssop, and dipping it in the blood that is in the basin, apply some of the blood to the lintel and the two doorposts. And none of you shall go outdoors until morning.”  
Exodus 12:30

-

_The blood stained his hands, but he had walked the cobbled streets and stood, expectant, on the bridge.  
But still G-d did not strike him down.  
So, like his mother had, he whispered a prayer and delivered himself unto the waters. _

_But the waters had raised him, and the waters did not let him drown._

_And that which he had expected on the bridge, he to whom Javert had pleaded, begged to die, that which haunted his nightmares and bore heavy on his guilty heart,_

_he who Javert had hated, and feared, and run from, had come to pull him from the waters._

There was no Pharaoh’s daughter, there on the filthy stones on a dark Paris night, but he coughed up silt and river-water, and the moon shone soft on whispered prayers.  
There was no one to find him and know him and name him for the water, but the arms that held him were strong and shaking, and the hands that smoothed his hair and wiped his brow were gentler than anything he had ever known. 

...

_Akodrate tu d’akeya noche,  
Kuando la luna testigo fue…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter this time! 
> 
> songs used:  
> la madre abandonada
> 
> (lyric translations)  
> Akodrate tu d’akeya noche, - remember that night  
> Kuando la luna testigo fue… - while the moon bore witness...


	10. el becerro, la golondrina, y las cadenas de sal. seccion 2- brigaki djilia and seville oranges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is just domestic old men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended listening:  
> (not in any language spoken in this fic) (just trust me on this one)  
> batut ii drumul, batut (lucretia ciobanu)
> 
> warning for mentions of food/cooking/etc.

Valjean was getting better, now. His hands were steadier, surer; he smiled with the radiance of a sunrise. He accompanied Javert to the market, sometimes. He never used his real name.  
But he seemed to know everyone, and everyone seemed to recognize him.  
And Javert could do nothing but watch.  
It was early morning. A Friday. The market did not yet have a crowd, so Valjean wandered off in search of pears. Javert stopped at a stall and bought some fresh oranges. He bought a bag of walnuts and a handful of almonds. 

_“Cuida que no esten viejas. Luego el gato de muez aze pena. Mira-”_

Valjean appeared at his side.  
“I think I got everything we needed. Is there any other errand we must run today?”  
“... Perhaps. I require... a specific recipe. I remember most of it, from...”

_He sat on a doorstep. The sun was shining weakly. The first year since he was left on the streets. His aunt had not had the time or money left to care for him.  
Someone threw a pebble at him. He got up and walked away. And he walked to the town square. He remembered his aunt, zesting an orange, telling him about how his name was from a place of citrus-trees and riverbanks, of old stone buildings and riverbanks and a history of pain. He remembered her talking about the fruit that grew so thick on the trees passerby could reach up and pick one and never come back empty-handed. There was no fruit on the trees here, none of the oranges and citrons and lemons his aunt kept in a painted bowl. There were only leaves, and sticks, and emptiness.  
His aunt chopped walnuts with a heavy blade.  
Javert didn’t know if he missed her._

“...from when I was young. But I would like to have the recipe, nonetheless.”  
“All right. What are we making?”  
“Gato de muez.”  
"Gâteau de _quoi_?”  
-

He zested the orange. He ground almonds and chopped walnuts. He added rosewater to the juice of the orange. The recipe did not ask for it.  
His aunt had made it that way. 

Valjean walked in, his old sunhat under his arm.  
“How can I help?”  
Javert handed him a wire-whisk and a bowl of egg yolks.  
“You can beat these with the sugar, if you want.”  
“How long?”  
“Until it’s so pale you forget it’s egg. Or until your arms hurt. Whichever comes first.”  
“All right.”

…

“So what exactly is this?”  
“It’s a cake.”  
“It has no flour.”  
“It does not.”  
“No leavening either?”  
“No.”  
“All right.”

…

“Javert-”  
“Yes?”  
“I was only wondering- What is your name? Your given one, I mean, your family name is-”  
“I- would rather not talk about that. At this moment.”  
“Of c-”  
“If it is all the same to you.”  
“All right.”

…

“Javert?”  
“Valjean?”  
“I am glad you are my friend.”  
Javert gently took the bowl of sugary egg from Valjean’s hands. He set it on the table.  
“I- have never been called a friend.”  
Valjean stole a piece of chopped walnut from the bowl.  
“Then here! I call you my friend, and I call myself yours-!”  
Javert turned away and added the orange juice and rind to the eggs.  
“I- thank you. Truly.”  
“For what? For speaking the truth? I will have none of it, mon ami-”  
And with that, Valjean covered one of Javert’s hands with his own.  
Javert’s hands were softer, a bit, and more steady than Valjean’s.  
Slightly larger and more warm.  
Valjean stroked his thumb along the back of Javert’s hand.  
Javert’s cheeks turned several shades darker. He turned his head slightly, a fraction.  
Valjean thanked the heavens for the sunlight pouring in through the window.  
His friend’s eyes were the color of the sky.  
-  
Valjean smiled, and it was radiant.  
And Javert could do nothing but watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> javert really is just. vibing out here baking 
> 
> Valjean: *touches Javert's hand one (1) time*  
> Javert, about to Pass Away: "this is fine"
> 
> -
> 
> (timeline-wise, this is very late March/early April 1833)
> 
> -
> 
> (Translation)  
> "Cuida que no esten viejas. Luego el gato de muez aze pena. Mira-"  
> "careful that they aren't stale. Then the walnut cake will be bad. Look-"


	11. el becerro, la golondrina, y las cadenas de sal. seccion 3- sevilla y granada y un pueblo en francia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all! this chapter has a Recommended Listening!! 
> 
> "La Galana i el Mar" (specifically the Aman Aman version)   
> and "Una Noche al Borde de la Mar" (I like the Rondinella version, personally)

_They said his father had been from a place of white buildings and old architecture, at the foot of the mountains. A place of palaces and rivers and rich fruits that split open in your hand. He had never met his father. He supposed he would never get the chance to._

Valjean had lost people, too. His sister, her children. His parents. 

_Two orphans, then. Two different forms of sorrow._

Valjean sat in the garden, some mornings. He would not work; he would not carry tools or wear his hat. He would simply sit, in the dawn and the quiet. 

Javert went to the bookshop again. He did not read, did not buy anything. He only stood and stared at the spines of the books. The titles were written in a language he had almost forgotten.   
He had almost forgotten many things. 

_Javert told Valjean more, of his youth. It was not much. Not enough to mean anything. But, to them, it was much, much more.  
Javert showed Valjean how to make bread like his aunt used to.  
Valjean showed him his sister’s recipe for winter stew, with endives and onions and potatoes.   
Javert found quince at the market and made squares of quince paste.  
Valjean learned how to stuff peppers. He taught Javert songs from his youth._

One day, Valjean walked home from the market to find Javert in his old armchair.   
(Javert had brought it from his apartments a few weeks earlier, and often fell asleep in it, curled up like a cat, or stretched out with legs crossed and his feet propped up.)  
He had an instrument on his lap, and was fiddling with the strings, humming a tune.   
Valjean stood, mystified, as Javert played a few notes.

_They sounded old, like the warm sun on worn stone walls, like a pointed arch or a window overlooking the ocean, like a dream he’d never had._

_They sounded like a sunrise over the ocean, like ripe fruit and people talking, laughing, in the square. Like winding streets and hidden corners, stone steps in alleyways, trees growing rich with flowers._

Javert played an old song, a song of loss and rebirth and the ocean. A song his aunt had sung. A song his mother whispered desperately as she was dragged back to shore. 

_His aunt had told him of a street in Toulon, “una kaye aedada, en la sivdad. No muy leshos de aki.” It still stood there to this day, she said, renamed but with the same pain and sorrow burnt into its stones._

And perhaps saltwater did have healing properties.   
Javert patrolled the streets, and felt the power in the ancient stones. He gazed at the stars, and no longer felt afraid. He talked with Valjean, of morals and childhoods and how best to make tea. There were things they would not mention; things that weighed heavy in the air and on their shoulders. But Valjean would pat Javert’s hand and smile at him and mention how Cosette had asked about his health. 

_Entre la mar i el rio…_

He would remind Javert of how he had stormed into the Pontmercy boy’s study, fuming, and grabbed him by the collar and repeated everything Valjean had told him about the cause for all this.   
Javert would mutter something about selling oneself short and take a long sip of too-hot tea.   
Valjean would blush and mumble something about being given too much credit and pat Javert’s back while he coughed the ghost of the Seine from his lungs.   
And there were things they would not talk about; things they would not address. But, somewhere and somehow, they knew they were known. 

_Era un bodre de mar,  
Ke yo empezi a amar_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs used are mentioned in the Beginning Notes
> 
> (lyric translations)  
> entre la mar i el rio... - "between the ocean and the river..."  
> Era un bodre de mar, Ke yo empezi a amar- "it was at the edge of the sea, that i began to love"


	12. el becerro, la golondrina, y las cadenas de sal. seccion 4- aracatano/mestenaró

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this one is uh. a doozy.
> 
> might make recommended listening an actual Thing since music is such a big part of this fic uh  
> -dona dona/ dos kelbl (not ladino but just listen to it anyway) (also not particularly relevant to this chapter) (the marx sisters version slaps and also makes me Cry but the bettina wegner version is also top-notch)  
> -honestly, just listen to landariko again (specifically the hadass pal-yarden version bc that's the best version of it) (should be the first result on spofity)
> 
> so uh-
> 
> Recommended Listening:  
> landariko  
> en la mar hay una torre (eduardo darnauchans)  
> paxarico (eduardo darnauchans)

Javert had been coming home later and later.  
_When had Javert become part of home? When did home become this man?_  
Valjean sat and worried late into the night, until the Inspector had trudged in and shrugged off his coat.  
Valjean said nothing. He smiled at Javert and went to heat water for tea.  
Javert did not comment on the worry in Valjean’s brow, in the slope of his shoulders, in the relief in his eyes. Perhaps he was too tired to see it, or perhaps he saw and said nothing, or perhaps he simply did not know to recognize the signs.  
But he returned earlier, after that. 

-

And one day, Javert came home with a letter.  
_When had this become home?  
Did it matter anymore?  
It seemed as easy and natural as anything, now._  
He opened it. His eyes skimmed over the text. He handed it to Valjean. He walked to the kitchen and made tea. He hid the shaking of his hands as best he could.  
He breathed. He hoped. He picked up the teapot. 

He walked back into the front room. 

He found Valjean in tears. The man was shaking. He stared at the paper as if it were a dream. He traced over the words with shaking fingers.  
Javert set the tea down and guided him to the sofa. They sat.  
“... can I-?”  
His hand hovered awkwardly over Valjean’s shoulder.  
Valjean said nothing. He only cried.  
Javert was about to withdraw his hand when, all at once, Valjean… crumpled. He shook with sobs as Javert gathered him up in his arms. 

(This was all very new to Javert, but he had seen Valjean do the same for Cosette, and tried to figure it out from there.)

Valjean clutched at the fabric of Javert’s waistcoat. Javert placed a protective hand on the back of Valjean’s head.  
_Perhaps now, after everything… the man had gone through so much. Perhaps now he could be happy._

Valjean cried. He cried with all the sorrow of a lifetime, all the pain he would not let himself show, for his sake or his sister’s or Cosette’s or Javert’s or anyone else’s.  
He cried with the desperation of one who has longed for the impossible, reached for the unattainable and brushed it with his fingertips, only to have it snatched away every time. He cried as if his soul had been torn out from him and laid bare, there, in a small house in the 15eme. 

And the sobs slowed, after some time, and Valjean found he could not cry any more.  
He stayed there, resting his forehead against Javert’s chest.  
He took a deep breath. He dreaded the words he was about to say, and he dreaded their answer. 

“Is it… real? It is not a dream?”

Javert pried one of Valjean’s hands from its grip on his waistcoat and held it. He pressed a kiss to its knuckles, quickly, before he lost the nerve. Before he could think too much about it. 

“No, Jean, you are free.”

And at the mention of his name, Valjean’s eyes shone with more emotion than Javert had ever seen them hold. Valjean turned his hand where Javert held it and laced their fingers together.  
“Truly, I- I do not know what to say-”  
“J- Valjean.”  
The name felt wrong in his mouth.  
“Jean. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to be free.”

Valjean looked at Javert, held his gaze with an intensity that Javert had not seen in him for a long time. His eyes shone cognac-brown with tears and joy and overwhelming emotion.  
His free hand slowly unclasped itself from Javert’s waistcoat.  
He reached out, tentatively, then pulled back his hand. 

He took a breath and reached out once more. He wound his fingers in the curls at the base of Javert’s neck.  
Javert took in a shuddering breath.  
_No one had ever been so gentle. Not to him. Especially not someone who should have hated him._  
The ribbon came loose from Javert’s hair. His greying curls seemed, then, to Valjean a shelter.  
Safety. _Home._  
He buried his face in Javert’s shoulder and wept. 

As he held Valjean, Javert thought.  
He thought of the sea. He thought of pebbled beaches and fruit-trees and lavender fields. He thought of people, everyone Valjean had helped.  
Javert tilted his head. He pressed his temple to the crown of Valjean’s head. 

They stayed like that for many minutes. Perhaps an hour or more. Neither of them cared to check.  
“...was this why you came home so late?”  
“... yes.”  
“Why?”  
“You know why.”  
“I do not.”  
Javert sighed.  
“I- _ya savras_.”  
“Is this- is this truly real?”  
“ _Es verdad. C’est vrai_. Jean, you are free.”

Valjean raised his head from Javert’s shoulder. He released Javert’s hand. He turned Javert’s head, softly, gently, so he was facing Valjean.  
_Javert almost leaned into the touch._  
Valjean brushed his thumb against Javert’s cheek.  
Once, twice, then let his hand fall. It rested on Javert’s shoulder, against the crook of his neck.  
“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can write 3 pages of emotion :) as a treat :)  
> this bitch just got PARDONED
> 
> title meanings:  
> "guardian"  
> "one who frees"  
> 
> 
> also like i am so sorry to readers of this fic- like half the story takes place in flashbacks that i just throw in throughout the story? and the other half is just Vaguely Implied throughout this uh-
> 
> honestly, just go read AROS by autumngracy here on ao3 it's VERY good  
> and watch the prince of egypt it's a great movie


	13. el becerro, la golondrina, y las cadenas de sal. seccion 5- trifusco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended listening:  
> alabanza a la novia (eduardo Darnauchans)

“Could I ask you something?”  
“Of course.”  
“Your name. Would you tell it to me?”  


Javert took a deep breath.  
Valjean lifted his head from Javert’s shoulder.  


“You do not have to if you are made uncomfortable by it, I apologize-”  
“My mother… I was told my mother called me Ferenc. Ferenc Astruc. I do not know if she was right.”  
“Right?”  
“Ferenc… means free. It is another form of Francois. _French._ Astruc…”  


Valjean covered one of Javert’s hands with his own.  


“...Astruc means- it came from- it means ‘born under a lucky star.’”  
“And you believe you are not?”  
“I have caused pain to too many to presume-”  
“But you have brought good things, also.”  
“I bring no _mazal_ , no luck-”  
“Ferenc.”  
“Do not call me that.”  
“I a-”  
“It is… I was only called Ferkó. If I was called at all.”  
“I see.”  


Javert said nothing. His eyes were lowered. His shoulders were tense.  


“Well… what was the word you used?”  
“Mazal. It means luck, fortune.”  
“Javert. You have given me… more than I could ever ask for. You are my mazal. Never doubt that you are needed, if not by anyone, then by me.”

_And Javert found himself in the arms of the man whose life he had made hell.  
He blinked back tears from his eyes. He did not deserve this. But- selfishly, he thought- he did not move. _

_He stayed there until Valjean had fallen asleep. But still he could not bring himself to move.  
So he shifted, rested his head on the arm of the sofa with Valjean’s head on his chest and Valjean’s hand on his shoulder. _

_And in his sleep, Valjean felt a feather-light touch on his head, as if someone had left a kiss in his hair._

...

_ay mi rosa del rosal._

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> javert pls sit down and have a pan d'espanya and some tea and maybe you'll calm down djhgfkjhdkfhg
> 
> songs used:  
> alabanza a la novia/(ansina dize) la nuestra novia
> 
> (lyric translations)  
> ay mi rosa del rosal- oh my rose from the rosebush
> 
> ok i'm so sorry if you don't want any spoliers/ extra info just don't read this but i could write a whole essay on some of the things i wrote in this fic so:
> 
> he's not completely right when he says "if i was called at all," see, the name he uses is a direct reflection of both his environment and his relationship with Himself like- in the first chapter, you see his names being used differently by different people... with his aunt he's Astruc, because that's the name she as a Sefaradi woman would relate to the most, and Javert because he's still Other  
> with the old man he's ferenc because that's the name he would relate to the most  
> with himself he's all, and neither, and just Javert when he starts to try to Fit In with the very white christian people he's surrounded by, with traditionally "french" names  
> and he was called!! he was called many things and he was _loved_ but then he just Wasn't anymore and i think he's internalized that more than anything. That, and the loss of people who cared for and about him, i think really affects his mindset??? at the seine  
> and, well, you've got valjean who javert is starting to trust and, well, he's not really been called or even known by his Full name since- well, since his mother  
> since really his aunt (not by blood, by the way) and the old man knew him by only one of his names and his last name-  
> OH which reminds me  
> his mother's really what's tying Javert and his identity as a Person together  
> like. not only is she both Romani and jewish BUT she also is the first person he remembers (don't ask me how he remembers his mom from the last time he saw her when he was like. an actual infant. just assume it's Fate Magic like how he didn't drown or like any of the other plot points in this fic)  
> and she's really who Javert is doing all this for. like he's a constant reminder of her and her sacrifice and the fact that he was pulled from the seine really just drove that home for him, like he was given to the water to save him, and pulled out of it to save him. And in the same way he gave himself to the water hoping to revoke that, and was pulled from it in another act of salvation. he tried to undo all the love he was given, and in doing so, found it again, a million times over. like he has this whole connection with water and in a way one could say he IS the almond-tree in the title- entre la mar i la arena, between the sea and the sand, caught between who he's made himself into and who he's found himself to be, and reconciling Inspector Javert, who was feared and hated, with Ferenc Astruc, who was loved so deeply he was saved five times over.  
> anyway i APOLOGIZE for this whole Essay  
> if u read the whole thing please know i appreciate you so much  
> if you didn't, please know i appreciate u so much too! bc you read this far!!! 
> 
> "trifusco" means peace, or tranquility


	14. el becerro, la golondrina, y las cadenas de sal. sección 6- un miroir de cristal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from Landariko
> 
> the recommended listening is as follows:
> 
> en el jardin de la reina (Joaquin diaz version)  
> nani nani (Hadass Pal-Yarden)  
> landariko (Hadass Pal-Yarden)
> 
> or if you want to break the Theme (and my own restrictions for what the recommended listening should be)  
> the Chava Ballet Sequence from Fiddler on the Roof (just because it's. really good.)

Javert would sometimes come home tired and angry. He would wrench off his coat and hat and sit at the table with his case files and stare at nothing.  
Valjean never asked. He only listened.  
Javert would take out stacks of papers from his desk and tell Valjean about all the misfiled cases, all the wrongful arrests, all the things he’d never noticed. Until-  
“Until you.”  
“ _Mon cher ami_ , you know I did nothing. You brought this change about in yourself.”  
“You did everything, Jean. You know this as well as I. And damn good all this does me, when the entire system seems to need change-!”  
“What can you do?”  
“Well, I am working on getting a retrial for-”

-

And one day, Javert came home just before sundown, lit two candles, and announced to Valjean that he wanted to resign.  
“You want to _what_?”  
“Quit. I want to quit. My post. At the Prefecture.”  
“You- all right.”  
“I can find some way to- what?”  
“All right.”  
Valjean took Javert’s coat and hung it on its hook.  
“I am proud of you, _mon ami._ ”

-

From across the table, Javert saw the worry in Valjean’s eyes, the slope of his shoulders, his hands worrying at the cuffs of his shirt, almost glowing, illuminated by candlelight. 

“What made you want to resign?”  
“Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.”  
A pause.  
“...the entire system, _everything, every damned thing_ , seems... _wrong_ to me now. How can I make another arrest? How can I continue under a system that is- that is unjust? How can I do anything, knowing that more people like you could be suffering in the name of the lie that is justice? How- after everything I have done, how can I presume- Is everything a lie? I know you are not the sole exception- there cannot be-”  
...

 _It is like this for me._  
-  
_But you! You can be free!_  
-  
_You_ will _be free._

…

Javert exhaled.  
“My mother- I have not told you this. My mother… was in prison. When I was born. Toulon, I think. That’s what I was told. I would not have survived, if-  
I was… saved. She escaped, somehow, and… gave me to the sea. I do not know if I- deserve it. I was found, and I was raised. I never knew my mother’s name, or her face. Only that- only that she gave me everything she had. I do not know if I have earned it, am worthy of-.”

Valjean took Javert’s hand, rubbing slow circles with his thumb on the rough skin. 

“My father… I never knew him, he was in prison but- the prisons were separate, I never knew his name, his face. All I have of his is my surname. I do not know what he did. I do not know... whether he... I do not know if he- I do not know where he is.”

Valjean let go of Javert’s hand.  
Javert looked up.  
Valjean walked around the table and sat beside him.  
Valjean took both of Javert’s hands in his. 

“I know… what it is like. To lose someone you barely met. To be stuck in limbo, not knowing whether they live. It is… not something I would wish upon anyone. It is not something you should have to bear alone.”

Valjean bent his head, slowly, and lifted one of Javert’s hands to his lips.  
Javert only stared. 

“Jeanne- she was different, those last few years. Tired, hurt, angry. Grieving. I did not- I do not remember ever seeing her after my arrest. I do not think I could have borne it. I do not know- where she is now, or the children. I do not know if they are alive. I was alone, until Cosette. Until you.”

Javert did not cry. He did not fall apart, or reach out and touch Valjean’s brow to smooth the worry from its creases. He did not tell Valjean about the old man, and the oud, and the necklace and the cards. He did not do any of those things. 

But he leaned into the touch when Valjean brought a shaking hand up to stroke his cheek. 

And what he did was this:  
He let his eyes fall closed.  
He felt Valjean’s hand falter, then reach back to brush against his jaw, to tangle its fingers in his hair.  
He realized Valjean’s other hand still covered his. He laced his fingers with Valjean’s.  
He remembered the relief in Valjean’s eyes, that first night after the river.  
He stayed there until his heart, his mind, his very soul ached with emotion. Two souls, grieving together.  
He opened his eyes.  
He was met with a look of pure devotion, unrestrained love that shone in Valjean’s tear-filled eyes.  
His throat was dry.  
He whispered a name like a prayer.  
“Jean…”

-

Valjean froze. His eyes flitted around Javert’s face, darting to their intertwined hands and his hand in Javert’s now-loose hair.  
“I- I apologize, I- I do not- Surely y-”  
He extracted his hand from Javert’s curls.  
“I- I hope I have not made you uncomfortable, I do not know wh-”  
“Jean.”  
Valjean stopped and stared at his.. friend.  
Javert looked vaguely dazed and more flustered than Valjean had ever seen him. His hand was still twined with Valjean’s on the table.  
“I- I was not made uncomfortable. And I- would not mind- if you were to do that again. If that is what you are asking.”  
Javert looked away. Valjean saw a faint blush on the man’s face, almost certainly mirrored tenfold on his own.  
“I see. Ah- I-”  
Valjean stood. Javert stood also.  
“Ah- I- it is getting late. I apologize, I-”  
“Jean.”  
“-fortable, truly, I- what?”  
“ _Bonne nuit._ ”  
“Goodnight, _mon mazal._ ”

Valjean let go of Javert’s hand. Or Javert of Valjean’s. 

Their rooms seemed far larger, that night.


	15. el becerro, la golondrina, y las cadenas de sal. sección 7-ijo de ken/ haberes buenos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for mentions of death but that's just par for the course for this fic huh?  
> also for mentions of food/cooking, etc.
> 
> uhhh i don't really have a recommended listening for this one. That might change- i don't know :/
> 
> the title means "the son of whom/ good news"  
> ("haberes buenos" is used to ward off bad news by some people)

Valjean and Javert gardened together, after that.  
Javert stared helplessly as Valjean grafted a tree-branch onto another, tied a tomato plant back with twine and deft fingers, wiped the sweat from his brow.  
As he smiled with the radiance of the sun. 

They talked, more. Javert sat with Valjean after dark on Fridays, in their armchairs by the light of two candles, discussing the work Javert was doing (for he did hate being idle), collecting cases of injustice, individual stories of lives ruined by the system. 

Valjean would rest his head on Javert’s shoulder and call him his friend, and the words tasted of longing on his tongue. But Javert would smile, just a twitch of the lips, and call him Jean, and so they were content. 

-

And then Javert got a letter. 

…

_Ven, muchacho, ansí se aze la torta di erbe. No, no- con kudiado- ansí-  
-_

_-murió. Está muerto mi Moshe.  
… en la prisión. No hizo nada, el prove, solo-  
Ven, hijo, y te ensenyo a rezar. _

_-  
Pardon, hijo. Ya no- ya no tengo para cuidarte. Ya ves, todos los demás ya se fueron. Estoy vieja y sola. No tengo paras, ya. Caminos de leche i miel, hijo. Que un día ayegues a donde queras ir. _

-

She had not been young, even then, when Javert had known her. But she was full of music, full of strict kindness. Gentle. Sorrowful. She held a history in her eyes, when she let him go. 

And now, his aunt was dead. She had been for… many years, according to the letter.  
Her grandson was writing. Apparently she had wanted to see him, before her death. Apparently he could not be found. 

_May you be comforted from heaven._

He had never seen her, after that. He had not known. He had not thought to look.  
Bowing his head, he realized: he had not cared.  
He had not had the chance to mourn properly. To tear his clothes and sit in silence and pray as he would for a parent (for that is what she was- she had raised him).  
But he could grant her this much.

-

“Jean.”  
“Yes? Oh… Javert- what’s wrong?”  
“It is simply the way of things. I am leaving.”

Valjean got up from where he knelt on the flowerbed.

“What has happened? Mon ami, do not doubt-”  
“No. It is not that. -My aunt. My _tia_. She is dead.”  
“How long?”  
“Many years. I learned only now.”  
“I am sorry.”  
“Her - She is in the South. Near-”  
“I see.”  
“I cannot ask you to come with me.”  
“I would not ask it of you.”  
“She would have liked you.”  
“You do not have to bear this alone.”  
“I will not ask.”  
“Of course. I will pack my bag.”

The carriage was to leave the next day.  
Javert could not bring himself to do anything. He could not mourn as he would have.  
He would not presume to still be called her son.  
And besides, she had been dead a long time. He would not cause her spirit more pain.  
So there was no cushion on the floor, no visitors, no mourning or prayer in a group. The door remained locked.  
But in the morning, Javert prayed, the same prayer his aunt had taught him so long ago.  
He sat at the window as the sun rose.  
Valjean awoke.  
Javert found himself in the kitchen.  
He mixed flour and butter, added an egg and some milk.  
He mixed spinach and artichoke. Fried an onion. Added three handfuls of peas.  
Spread the dough on a tin with rough, scarred hands. A sign of someone who had almost died far too many times. The mark of an inspector- or a convict.  
He baked it.  
He remembered the way his aunt had said it was green, and green meant new beginnings.  
He hoped she was at peace. 

The next day, they left for Toulon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really just dangled the possibilty for closure in front of this man's face and yanked it away huh? :/  
> javert is charlie brown and i am lucy holding the football
> 
> (okay he can have a little bit of closure. as a treat.)
> 
> (translations)  
>  _Ven, muchacho, ansí se aze la torta di erbe. No, no- con kudiado- ansí-_  
>  "come, boy, this is how you make spinach tart. No, no- carefully- like this-"
> 
>  _-murió. Está muerto mi Tomas._  
>  "- died. My Tomas is dead. "
> 
>  _… en la prisión. No hizo nada, el prove, solo-_  
>  "... in prison. He didn't do anything, poor man, he only-"
> 
>  _Ven, hijo, y te ensenyo a rezar._  
>  "come, son, and i will teach you to pray."
> 
> _Pardon, hijo. Ya no- ya no tengo para cuidarte. Ya ves, todos los demás ya se fueron. Estoy vieja y sola. No tengo paras, ya. Caminos de leche i miel, hijo. Que un día ayegues a donde queras ir._
> 
> "i am sorry, my son. I- i don't have the means to take care of you anymore. you see, the others have left. I am old and alone. I don't have _paras_ (money) anymore. May your paths be of milk and honey, my son. May you someday reach the place you want to go to."


	16. la délivrance. partie 1- la luz i la eskuridad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they do b sleeping
> 
> recommended listening:   
> El romance de los siete hermanos y el poxo airon- eduardo darnauchans  
> alta alta es la luna- eduardo darnauchans

The carriage rolled along the roads, inching ever closer to the south.   
Valjean slept at Javert’s side. His head bobbed and nodded with the motion of the carriage. His brow was furrowed.   
Javert glanced at the seat opposite him, where the oud sat in its canvas bag. His old carpetbag lay beside it. He had not used it for travel since-   
Since he had turned his back on the ocean and gone to Montreuil. 

The carriage jolted, and Valjean slumped, still sleeping, against Javert’s side.   
Javert tensed. Valjean did not wake.   
He brought his hand up to Valjean’s shoulder.   
To steady him. That was all. Of course. 

He rested his head against the window.   
His fingers tapped out a rhythm on his knee, almost of their own accord.   
He hummed under his breath. 

Sleep claimed him, slowly, as he looked out at the rolling fields and small patches of trees, the dense forests and quiet towns. 

He slept, and he dreamt, and what he dreamt was this:

_His aunt smiled in her tired way, and patted his cheek._

He had not dreamt of her in as many years as had passed since her death. 

_She opened the door and grabbed a familiar carpet-bag._

Javert knew what happened next. He had lived it. 

_But his aunt opened the door and stepped out into the golden daylight. She, instead of him._

Undeserving. 

_He looked to his left, and there in its painted box, he saw his aunt’s nazar on its chain, where it had always been.  
He picked it up, and saw the ocean in the blue-toned glass. _

-

The carriage stopped.  
The sun shone its midday light outside the window.   
Valjean blinked awake, held comfortably against- ah.  
Well.   
It would be a shame to wake him up.   
Valjean rested his head back against his friend’s breast. He felt the pattern of Javert’s breathing as he slept. 

The horses took their rest and started their path again.   
Valjean did not sleep.   
A single curl escaped Javert’s queue.   
Valjean pulled his knitting from the bag beside him, careful not to disturb Javert.   
Night fell, and the carriage stopped.   
And so passed the first day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so their travel plan is kind of weird because the plot works better that way? i dunno uh anyway well it's going to take them roughly seven days on the road for them to get to Javert's aunt's house.


	17. la délivrance. partie 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> javert's feeling some big guilt..,.,.,,.

Valjean was knitting, and the carriage went ever closer to hell.  
Knitting was… calming. Grounding. It reminded him of Jeanne.  
_His dear sister. She used to knit and spin with such skill._  
Valjean missed her terribly.  
It was easier, he thought, to bear, with Javert by his side.  
He gave a small start. Hm. Perhaps he should… not be thinking that.  
Did friends think that way of each other?  
He resolved to put the issue out of his head. What else could he feel for this man, but friendship?

Next to him on the seat, Javert stared at his hands. 

_How many had he failed?  
How many had he hurt?  
His aunt was dead.  
It was not a surprise.  
It hurt to know that she had still thought of him. _  
Even when he had not thought of her.  
_She left him._  
She had no choice.  
_She could have-_  
What, and left them both to die?  
_He had hurt so many_  
And he would try to make amends. 

Valjean began a second stocking. 

Night fell, and so passed the second day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no translations for this one, folks
> 
> uh so javert is just. he really isn't doing too well. :/ 
> 
> for reference this should be around june?????? maybe????


	18. la délivrance. partie 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for my absolutely inconsistent posting schedule uh--
> 
> anyway recommended listening:  
> landariko (aga i n )  
> batut ii drumul batut
> 
> if you want to listen to a song with Vibes but not Accuracy To The Time Period And Languages uh listen to "achilles come down" and "st james park" (from the good omens soundtrack)

Javert shuffled and reshuffled his cards. Valjean slept beside him, calm and at peace.  
Javert was... not so.  
He had slept, and dreamt of his mother. 

_Would any of them be truly at peace?_  
His heart ached with the guilt of stories left unfinished. Loose ends that would never be tied.  
_Had he brought more pain upon them both?_  
The morning was cold. His ribs ached.  
He shifted in his seat, and felt it in his leg.  
_It had been broken, in-_  
and Valjean had cared for him.  
_and he was, now as ever, just another burden on the man. of course._  
He was sure Valjean would have it worse. 

Would he ever stop causing pain? 

Valjean stirred, next to him.  
His hair was golden in the soft dawn.  
Javert wanted to reach out, hold those holy hands in his. 

Valjean blinked. He stretched out, slowly. 

Javert offered him more space, to sleep.  
Valjean smiled sadly.  
_They both knew he had slept on much less.  
They both knew he woke before dawn every morning.  
They both knew that some habits, he would never shake.  
They both knew of reminders. Of an inescapable past. _

The carriage stopped at a town, for breakfast.  
Valjean visited the cathedral.  
Javert bought some bread.

He stood in front of the cathedral. He waited. The town was lovely, medieval and full of life.  
Valjean still did not emerge. 

Javert left the bread inside the carriage. He took a breath, steeled himself.  
Walked under the tympanum, and entered the cathedral. 

His footsteps echoed.  
He could almost hear- 

And there, in a small chapel, half-illuminated by stained-glass light, stood Valjean. 

_Dando gracias a Dios padre…_

He turned as Javert neared, held out a hand.  
He looked like an angel. A saint.  
They both knew he was neither. 

_i un espesho kristalino…_

Javert stepped forward. Their fingers intertwined.  
Valjean smiled, in that gentle way of his.

Valjean turned toward the altar. It stood, imposing and gated-off, above the rows of pews.  
To the right of the main entrance, almost halfway up the wall, there was a door.  
Javert wondered who had used it.  
A small, handwritten sign was tacked onto a door. Something about the crypt. Javert looked away.  
The ceilings arched high, vaulted and supported by countless stones.  
Javert thought of his mother in the _salles._  
Valjean wiped a tear from his cheek. He pulled out a necklace from under his waistcoat.  
He gazed almost tenderly at the delicate golden cross. He kissed it. Another tear fell down his cheek. He looked at peace. 

Javert stared at his feet. 

-

The carriage continued. Valjean did not let go of Javert’s hand.  
Night fell, and so passed the third day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slaps Javert* this man can fit so much GUILT in him
> 
> oh! also the town they stop in is auxerre and the cathedral is St Etienne just bc. pretty
> 
> (lyric translations)  
> Dando gracias a Dios padre…- giving thanks to God the father (this is not an ideal translation but i have no clue how else to phrase it)  
> i un espesho kristalino…- and a crystalline mirror...


	19. la délivrance. partie 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crikey sorry for my horrible posting schedule.,..,,.,
> 
> anyway here! have More Carriage Travel!
> 
> no recommended listening this time around

“Do you know, Jeanne used to sing this song… about planting cabbage-”  
“Cabbage?”  
“Cabbage! _A la mode de chez nous!”_  
Valjean laughed, shoulder-to-shoulder with Javert in the carriage.  
“My- my aunt. She used to sing this song- about- aubergine... “  
Valjean smiled softly at Javert. Waiting. Expecting.  
“It was… about people, and their recipes, but I- I can’t remember it- she used to sing it when- I can’t- I can’t remember her song. I can’t remember any of it- i-”

_A young boy, no older than 13.  
He walked past the market. He knew he couldn’t afford anything they sold.  
A smiling old woman chatted with the owner of the stall next to her.  
He could see a cart full of aubergines.  
_Berenjenas_ , his aunt called them.  
She would guide his hands in dicing them and cooking them, though they were both impatient and her hands shook.  
Though she was tired, she would place the dish on the table with a flourish and sing her song.  
“Siete modos de guisado, se guisan las berenjenas, la primera que la guisa es la…”  
Who? Who cooked them? What did they cook? _

Javert stared at his hands. 

_“Es la… es la… hija esther?”_

No. 

_A boy. No older than 14. Glaring with fear and resentment at the people around him.  
He was offered a position working as a guard. He took it.  
He heard his aunt’s voice, dancing around the small house, singing about aubergines.  
He pushed it out of his mind and replaced it with Justice. _

_“Je- je ne-”_  
“Javert- _Javert-!”  
“... Jean?”_  
“It’s me. Breathe. Here-”  
“...”  
“What’s wrong?”  
“I- I couldn’t remember the song. I can’t remember- anything. I-”  
“Javert… _breathe._ ”  
“When I- when I was working as a guard. In... the south. I- I tried so hard to forget. I didn’t think it had worked.”  
“But- Javert, please, _breathe-”_  
“And now she’s dead, and i’ll never know- i’ll never hear her again-”  
“Javert,-”  
“She raised me. Jean. That woman _raised_ me and all I did in return was forget.”  
Valjean wrapped an arm around Javert’s shoulder. Javert stiffened.  
“Javert-”  
The Inspector’s posture was impeccable, upright and uncomfortable.  
He spat out a single phrase, and the words tasted bitter in his mouth.  
“I disgust myself.” 

Valjean grew quieter at this, and tapped his hand against his knee.

Javert heaved a sigh that sank heavy with the weight of his guilt.  
_Fine.  
So be it.  
It’s not like he didn’t deserve it, anyway. _

_Pain._

_Pain._

_Pain._

_Would he ever stop causing it?  
Would he ever stop deserving it?_

Valjean took his hand, and did not let go, until Javert pulled his hand out of the man’s sleep-soft grip. 

Night fell, and Javert sat awake, alone with his _guilt._  
Valjean’s brow furrowed in his sleep.  
The carriage stopped, and so passed the fourth day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs referenced: that one song that goes "savez-vous planter les choux"  
> also i keep calling them aubergines because calling them eggplants would ruin the Writing Vibe bc every time i think the word "eggplant" it's david tennant going "wOT tHE HELL IS AN EGGPLANT??????" so. yeah.


	20. interlude for two mourners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not supper happy with how this one came out but whatever
> 
> anyway sheridan square by howard ashman makes me Cry and also every time i get a comment i get so much serotonin if any of y'all have commented on this fic please know that i appreciate you so much and you inspire me to keep going with this fic

_A rickety carriole. A white horse. The iron hand of fate, melted down in the shadow’s hands. Searing-cold metal around his ankle, his wrists, his neck. The hiss of fire in the ocean. The stench of salt.  
Valjean felt sick.  
Hands grasped his shoulders. The cart tossed him around in his seat. He spoke as if in a dream. He heard a voice call out his name. No. No, he- he could not- Cosette- he could not be sent back to Hell- he fumbled in his pockets for something, anything-_

_“-jean. Valjean. Valjean, please-”  
“No- no, please- I-”_

_The Seine rushed around the shadow, hitting his back and parting around him like a dim alley.  
He tried to run, to help, to do anything, but he was held fast- he-_

_“- I am a tree-pruner from Faverolles, un emondeur, please, I- I must do something I-”  
“Damn it, Valjean, wake UP-”_

_And light rushed in, and-_

\--

The carriage rolled to a stop outside a small town.  
Two travellers stepped out of a carriage.  
The town was spread before them, surrounded by lavender-fields.  
Two travellers walked down a street, towards the center of the town.  
To one, it was all too familiar.  
To the other, it was a painful reminder of the pain of the first. 

Valjean stopped at a building. Pressed his lips to his fingertips. Pressed his fingers to the door. 

They continued to the graveyard.  
It was old, and worn, and loved. 

Two travellers stopped at a grave.  
One knelt.  
Two travellers and two mourners.  
Two people at a grave.  
But who’s to say they couldn’t be both? 

Valjean pressed his fingers once more to his lips, and pressed them to the Bishop’s grave.  
He knelt, there, in silence.  
A bird sang a song of morning. 

Two travellers and a mourner visited a grave.  
The mourner stood and walked back to the carriage. 

One traveller and one mourner stood at a grave.  
He pulled a jet rosary from his pocket. He placed it on the sun-warm earth in front of the gravestone. 

And two travellers got in a carriage, and headed back on the road to Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah this doesn't count as A Day Of Travel bc idk i said so


	21. la délivrance. partie 5-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not particularly happy with this one, but hey what can ya do?
> 
> anywy no real song rec for this one
> 
> i might go back and rewrite this but idk

Valjean held on to Javert in his sleep.  
He woke with his head on the man’s breast, and one of Javert’s hands resting very gently- and very awkwardly- on his back, thumb moving back and forth across the soft fabric of his shirt. 

Javert turned his head and blinked slowly at Valjean. It looked like he had just fully realized that he was being used as a pillow.

And then, suddenly and horribly, Valjean realized he had been _using the Inspector as a pillow._

_Again!_

He pushed himself off his friend’s chest, blushing furiously.  
“I- ah- I am sorry-”  
Javert blinked at him, and in a bizarre moment of clarity Valjean realized that the man was just as flustered as he.  
“You have nothing to be sorry about-”  
“But I-”  
“It is no trouble. To me.”

Valjean froze, then. He blinked.  
“Oh.” 

Javert looked out the window.  
Valjean tugged at his sleeve cuffs. 

The carriage stopped at another town.  
The weather was cooler. 

Valjean bought soup for Javert at an inn.  
Javert retaliated by buying him a pastry. 

The carriage rolled on. 

Night fell, and so passed the fifth day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh also apparently yiddish folk metal music exists???????? i found that out recently and it bops


	22. la délivrance. partie 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no real song rec????
> 
> sorry for not keeping any sort of uploading schedule
> 
> also, for the Vibes, listen to "la mort des etoiles" by les soeurs boulay

On the sixth day, the birds did not sing in the morning.   
Javert did not ask why.   
Valjean grew ever more anxious as the carriage rolled down a too-familiar countryside. 

_Who was the calf? Who was the bird? Neither of them felt free._

Lot’s wife looked back, and found herself trapped in salt. 

The ghost of the sea still followed Valjean. 

Javert found himself in the water, once and twice and a thousand times again. Almost a mikveh. Not quite. He didn’t think that was the proper way to do it. He figured he had no real way to know. 

He didn’t know if it counted. If anything he did counted for anything, anymore.  
If it ever did.   
But he closed his eyes and tried to feel… renewed. Absolved. Guilty.   
_Anything._   
Valjean touched his fingertips to the back of Javert’s hand. 

And they both tried to pretend that they were not going to a place of dread, and loss, and the smell of the sea. 

So passed the sixth day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no lyrics! just a reference to dos kelbl.,,.,,


	23. la délivrance. partie 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just.,.,,,, listen to dona dona

“And He ceased on the seventh day from all the work that He had done.”  
Genesis 2:2

And on the seventh, dreaded day, the carriage rolled to a stop in a small street in a small town outside Toulon, as far from the sea as the town went.   
Neither passenger made any move to get out.   
Valjean sat, tense and silent, as far from the doors as possible.   
The curtains were drawn over the windows. 

_A young boy sat under a barren fruit-tree. Someone threw a rock at him, yelled words he did not recognize.  
He continued walking the road to the city. _

-

 _In the city, there was a street.  
His mother had lived by the ocean.   
His father had never met him.   
His name meant “luck.” “Stars.” _  
(everything he was not. Everything he did not have.)  
 _He belonged to a people of vibrant culture, of familiar languages and hope and candlelight.  
He belonged to a family.   
His mother had loved him.  
In the city, there was a prison.   
This is what his aunt had told him. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK HERE'S THE THING
> 
> in my opinion, part of why Javert is Like That as an adult (in the world of this fic) is because he got to be loved and be happy and belong, and then he just, very suddenly, _wasn't_


	24. la délivrance. partie 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "la galana- bouchra lana" by francoise atlan

_This was not the city.  
It was a prison nonetheless- not one of pain and cruelty and iron bars, no, but one of fear and loss and memories.  
Wretched memories.  
The grimy grasping hands of society, forcing him to become-_  
Javert stepped out of the carriage. 

Valjean did not.   
Javert got back in. 

“Are you- we do not have to.”  
“No. We do.”  
“I- am trying to say. That _you_ do not have to.”  
“You do not want me here?”  
“... no. I do not want you...- to suffer. For my sake.”  
“...”  
“I-”  
“I am not suffering. Javert. For you. And you need- well. I want to be here. For you.”  
“I should not have made you come, if it would cause you pain-”  
“You know I would go anywhere. I would walk to the ends of the Earth, Javert. For you.”

“...why?”  
“You- well.”

_Tu sauras._

Valjean took Javert’s hand.   
They stepped out of the carriage.  
 _He almost choked at the stench of the sea._  
Valjean’s leg buckled under him. Javert caught him by the shoulder and heaved him gently back to full standing height. 

Javert breathed shallowly as they walked through the street. His eyes darted back and forth, more on guard than usual.   
A voice shouted something.   
He flinched.   
His hand clutched the hamsa in his pocket. 

Valjean, leaning on a cane borrowed from Javert, saw this and said nothing.   
They both knew of ghosts. 

They reached a small street.   
They walked along it.   
Javert froze.   
He pressed a hand to the mezuzah near the door.   
He pressed his shaking fingertips to his lips.   
Valjean said nothing. 

Javert raised a shaking hand, and for the first time since he was a child, knocked at the door of his _tia’s_ house. 

_ya salió de la mar._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :,)
> 
> ya salio de la mar- [they] have [finally/already/now] come out of the sea
> 
> \---


	25. la délivrance. partie 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is,,
> 
> listen to "La Galana- bouchra lana" by Francoise Atlan,,,

He did not deserve this.  
He did not deserve a second chance.  
He had not deserved to be saved, once and twice and a hundred times more.  
He did not deserve to be- to be _asked for,_ and _wanted,_ and-

The door opened.  
A man stared at him. 

Javert stood stiffly in the doorway. 

Valjean tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves. 

The man blinked at them with too-familiar eyes. 

Valjean stared at the ground. 

Javert cleared his throat and spoke, far too quietly and with an almost comical stiffness.  
“Inspector Javert, of the Paris Police, First Class. _Enchanté._ "

Valjean let out a quiet puff of laughter next to him.  
The man turned to face him. 

“And I am- ah- Jean Valjean. My- his- ah-“  
“Friend.”  
“Yes. That. His- Bonjour.”

The man blinked. He turned to Javert. Tilted his head. Studied him for a moment. _Smiled._

“You are my brother, then. Welcome. I am Haïm. I met you once. You will not remember me. You were- very small, then.”

And Haïm Navarro held out a hand, and welcomed two weary travellers into his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAÏM TIME!! I LOVE HIM,,


	26. interlude ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he's having a bit of a moment
> 
> recommended listening: triste esta el rey david by hadass pal-yarden..
> 
> listen to "khavele" from the 2018 yiddish cast recording of fiddler on the roof for this one,,  
> i try to keep the song recommendations to songs in Ladino that could concievably be of the Vibe of this time period or before,, but sometimes a song just has the perfect Vibes,,

_He sank into the water.  
He was choking, drowning, suffocating.  
He heard the call of the shofar.  
The world went black, and then he was in a room.  
He knew this room- heavy curtains, a worn wood desk- no, the curtains were light and colorful, the color of saffron and pomegranate.  
The scent of mint tea- no, chamomile- no, mint.  
And too-small hands, work-worn but not enough.  
A face, kind but not- not_ his. 

_And Javert awoke, in an unfamiliar room, and he was alive, and the ocean and the river had not allowed him to die._

Mazal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	27. la tu kaza. parte i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: mentions of javert's sewer slide attempt (non-explicit)
> 
> listen to "d'en dia en dia" from the album Yahudice by Hadass Pal-Yarden
> 
> (also watch the ladino ladies' club short film it's the entire inspiration for this chapter and also is just overall very good)
> 
> (translations will be in the endnotes)

“En mi chikez, yo- pues, yo soy el bohor, ya ves- fui yo, i ella.  
La muestra mama- Esther, se yamaba, como la su ija i su inyeta-la muestra Estreya, le dizimos- solo ella i yo. I ansina fue, asta Esthera, le dizimos la lova por komo es- i el de despues, Moshe, el chaucha, el mas djoven.  
Fuimos eya i yo, i era buen tiempo.  
Ishalla estuvieran aki- la lova trabaja, i Moshe- pues…”

“No kere estar aki?”

“No… bueno, si, pero-”  
“Entendo. No… es fasil.”  
“No.”

“Moshe, por-”  
“El su marido- de la muestra mama-”  
“El que...?”

“Si.”  
“... a.”

“El tu…”  
“Amigo?”  
“ _Amigo._ Si. es bueno kon ti?”  
“Es… un andjelo. Me salvo.”  
“El tu amigo?”  
“Si.”  
“... buena suerte.”

“Que az hecho desde ke-?”  
“Soy- fui- … _Inspecteur.”_  
“Kontinuas-”  
“Si.”  
“Sempre seras, ya saves.”  
“Ke?”  
“Ijo de Esther. Djudio. Mi ermaniko Astruc. Tu dechide.”  
“Kreyo… ke ay muchas kozas ke sempre sere.”  
“Kreyo yo ke algunas no se kedan. Aunque no lo kreyas agora.”

“Porque keres azer ke te aborreska?”  
“...”  
“Entiendo.”  
“No.”  
“No lo parvendras. Eres el mi ermaniko.”  
“No- merezco…”  
“Kaya, ya. Ven. Vamos al jardin.”

“Trate… de matarme.”  
“Pardon.”  
“No es de dar pekado.”  
“… siges aki.”  
“Keres saver porke.”  
“Si no es-”  
“No. En las aguas, no… bueno, estaba apunto de morir. Kreyo. No kreyo ke keria. Dio, ya saves. Pero-”  
“Pero.”  
“Jean- mi- amigo.”  
“Kuando dizites ke te salvo-?”  
“No era mentira.”  
“Fuites mazalozo, alora.”  
“Si.”  
“Shukur al Dio ke no moriste.”  
“Es lo ke dize Jean…”  
“Tu no?”  
“No se.”  
“No tene ke ser de saver. Solo vivir.”  
“... si.”

“... Abla con la Estreyika. Es djoven. Pero intelijente. _Elle est sage_ , komo Salomon.”  
“...bueno.”

“No tenes ke ser algun mas, aki. Puedes ser tu.”  
“... lo se.”  
“Es zor. _C’est difficile.”_  
“Si.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "in my youth, i- well, i'm the eldest, you see- it was me, and her.  
> our mother- Esther, she was called, like her daughter and her granddaughter- our Estreya, we call her- only her and me. and it was like that, until Esthera, we call her la lova (the wolf) for how she is- and the last one, Moshe, the bean, the youngest.  
> But it was her and me, and it was a happy time.  
> I wish they were here- la lova works, and Moshe- well..."
> 
> "he does not want to be here?"
> 
> "No... well, yes, but-"  
> "I understand. It is not... easy."  
> "No."
> 
> "Moshe, for-"  
> "Her husband- our mother's-"  
> "The one who...?"
> 
> "Yes."  
> "...ah."
> 
> "Your..."  
> "Friend?"  
> " _Friend._ Yes. He is good to you?"  
> "He is... an angel. He saved me."  
> "Your friend?"  
> "Yes."  
> "... good luck."
> 
> "What have you done since-?"  
> "I am- was- inspecteur."  
> "You continue-"  
> "Yes."  
> "You will always be, you know."  
> "Be what?"  
> "Son of Esther. Jewish. My younger brother Astruc. You decide what I mean."  
> "I think... thaere are many things I will always be."  
> "I think some don't last forever. Even if you don't believe me right now."
> 
> "Why do you want to make me hate you?"  
> "..."  
> "I understand."  
> "No."  
> "You won't achieve it. You're my brother."  
> "I do not- deserve it..."  
> "Hush, now. Come. Let's go to the garden."
> 
> "I tried... to kill myself."  
> "I am sorry."  
> "it isn't to feel sorry for."  
> "... you're still here."  
> "you want to know why."  
> "if it is not-"  
> "no. in the waters, i didn't... well. i was about to die. i think. i don't think it was wanted. g-d, you know. But-"  
> "but."  
> "Jean- my- friend."  
> "when you said he saved you-?"  
> "it was not a lie."  
> "you were fortunate, then."  
> "yes."  
> "thanks to g-d that you didn't die."  
> "that is what Jean says, also..."  
> "not you?"  
> "i don't know."  
> "it doesn't have to be about knowing. only living."  
> "... yes."
> 
> "talk to Estreyika. She is young. But intelligent. _Elle est sage_ , like Solomon."  
> "... alright."
> 
> "You don't have to be someone, here. You can be you."  
> "... I know."  
> "it's hard."  
> "yes."
> 
> \---
> 
>  _Haïm_ , from the Hebrew word for life.


	28. la tu kaza. parte ii

“What kept you going?”  
“I don’t know. Spite. Duty. Keeping Valjean out of trouble.”  
“Duty?”  
“To- myself, I suppose. To justice. To valjean, for- everything. to G-d.”  
“To G-d?”  
“I don’t know if I believe in them. but clearly _someone_ wants me alive. G-d, or Jean, or my own damned self.”  
“I th-“  
“I don't know. I don't think I want to die anymore. not when I- not when. you know.”  
“G-d didn’t save you. Not this time.”  
“I know.”  
“But I think you saved yourself. Because you were loved.”  
“It is no one’s-”  
“It is Valjean’s. _Tikkun olam,_ and all that.”  
“I suppose you are right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is going to be :eyes:


	29. la tu kaza. parte iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended listening:   
> ken supiesse i endendiense (francoise atlan version or whoever's you like best)  
> arvoricos d'almendra (eduardo darnauchans or whoever you like best)

“There is a custom, you know. To put a stone on graves. It keeps the soul down, in its permanent home.”  
“That sounds beautiful.”  
“That is not my point. I mean to say- I do not think I want to die quite so badly anymore.”  
“...”  
“I am not saying I want to live. Or that- that I am not upset at G-d. But I- I think living. Has gotten less difficult.”  
“I am glad.”  
“I mean. With all this, that… I think you are the stone upon my grave.”  
“Thank you.”  
“I-”

“I understand.”

Valjean smiled, softly and sadly, from his seat next to Javert’s.   
“First it was G-d. Then Cosette.”  
He took Javert’s hand.  
“I- well. Now it is you.”

“Even after- everything?”  
“Because of everything.”  
“I am not a good person, Jean.”  
“No. You were only doing what you thought was just.”  
“A lie of omission is a lie nonetheless.”  
“You have grown.”  
“You sound like my aunt.”  
“No, Javert. I mean-”

Valjean placed his hand on Javert’s chest, just above his heart.  
Javert’s breath caught in this throat.  
Valjean let his hand fall, catching Javert’s other hand where it rested on the table.

“You've changed. No one could do it for you. It is… an act of G-d.”  
“It is… not something I could have done by myself. It is not something I did by myself.”  
“Javert.”  
“Jean.”

Valjean’s eyes shone bright with emotion.  
Javert was transfixed.   
And then Valjean ducked his head and pressed his lips to Javert’s cheek.

And the world froze. 

And Javert found himself motionless, re-evaluating his entire life, as Valjean pulled away, apologizing.  
And he found himself reaching out and finding Valjean’s hand, and pressing a kiss to its fingertips.

And Valjean stopped, and stood, and stepped closer.  
And Valjean reached out to cup Javert’s cheek.   
Javert leaned into the touch, almost unconsciously turning his face towards the warmth of his palm.   
Valjean let out a shaky breath.   
Javert, as if through a haze, put his hand on top of Valjean’s where it rested on his cheek. He lowered his head and kissed Valjean’s wrist, slowly, reverently.  
Valjean flinched.  
Javert startled and drew back.   
His free hand was still intertwined with Valjean’s. 

Valjean closed his eyes and breathed, in a slow and measured pace.   
_Un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, in.  
Un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, hold.   
Un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, out.   
You are safe. You are safe. You are safe.   
Un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, in._

He smiled shakily at Javert. 

He stepped closer again and reached out, brushing Javert’s jaw with his fingertips, feather-light against his skin.   
Javert sat motionless as Valjean continued with a look of awe on his face.   
Javert closed his eyes. 

And Haïm walked in, talking animatedly to a young woman.   
They froze.   
The girl shoved her hands in the pockets of her trousers. She removed her hands. She hooked her thumbs on her suspenders.   
Haïm coughed.  
The girl stared pointedly at her uncle- for that was what he was- and walked out of the room, dragging Haïm out with her. 

Javert and Valjean sat frozen as distant laughter echoed through the hallways. 

Javert cleared his throat.   
Valjean drew back, beet-red. He pulled his hand back from Javert’s cheek.   
Javert keenly missed the warmth.  
He stood from his seat.   
Valjean startled at the sudden movement.   
Javert lowered his head.   
Valjean smiled at this, and reached out once more, to catch his chin and tilt his head upwards. 

“Can I-?”  
“What?- ah- yes,”

Valjean moved closer, somehow, and brought his other hand to Javert’s shoulder.   
Javert closed his eyes. 

And Valjean pressed his lips to Javert’s.   
There was no poetry, no ceremony.   
Only Valjean smiling against Javert’s lips and Javert brushing Valjean’s hair back, leaning down to match Valjean’s height. 

Valjean pulled away, smiling fondly at Javert, one hand still on the man’s cheek. He rested his forehead against Javert’s, standing on the tips of his toes to reach. 

And something made a sound, and Valjean almost pulled back, but was stopped by Javert’s hand resting gently on his shoulder.   
“You are safe here.”  
“You cannot promise that, mon _mazal.”_  
“I swear to you, Jean- if there is something, anything, in my power that I can do. I will do it. You are safe. I swear it.”  
“Thank you.”

Javert pressed a kiss to Valjean’s forehead.   
“You know, _‘mazal’_ , it can also mean ‘destiny.’”  
“Hmm. I like that.”  
“I do not believe in destiny. I believe in choice.”  
“You always did.”  
“And I will choose you, Jean.”  
“Even-”  
“No matter what. You are my _mazal,_ also. In every meaning of it.”  
“Thank you.”  
“...”  
“We should probably leave before Haïm and Esther come back.”  
“Yes… that was Esther?”  
“The youngest one, yes.”  
“She looks like- well. Let us find our room. Before anyone else finds us.”  
 _“Bien, mon âme."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> them,


	30. la tu kaza. parte iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haïm and javert b having a heart-to-heart
> 
> recommended listening:  
> landariko  
> if you can find a very soft folksy cover of dayenu also listen to that

“Astruc. Do you love him?”  
“I can’t love him. I _won’t._ I won’t put him through that.”  
“Through what? The indignity of being _loved?_ ”  
“By me. By- well. You know. What people think.”  
“People? _People_ -?! Who said anything about _people_? Astruc, _bovo_ , what matters is what _you_ think.”  
“I- I do not know.”  
“Ay. Well, then, does he make you happy?”  
“I don’t think I remember how to be.”  
“ _Ay ke drama_. But he clearly loves you.”  
“That’s just how he is. You don’t know him-”  
“Not like you do?”  
“...”  
“I think knowing someone, sometimes, can be. I think that’s a form of love.”  
“I want him to be happy. G-d knows he deserves it.”  
“...”  
“It’s- it is not _people_ I am worried about.”  
“G-d? Your Valjean?”  
“He is not _my_ anything. He doesn’t love me.”  
“I remember seeing something directly contradictory to that the other day-”  
“It was- it was _nothing_. I’m sure it was nothing to him.”  
“But to you?”  
“Well. It was more than nothing.”

_Later, Valjean would go to Javert and kiss his forehead and apologize for overhearing. He would tell Javert, once, twice, seven times seven, that he meant it, and Javert would do the same._

_And later, Javert would rest his chin on the crown of Valjean’s head and almost-smile when Valjean blushed bright red._

_\---_

_And if it had been any less, it would have been enough._

_\---  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lyrics at the end are referencing dayenu


	31. la tu kaza. parte v

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to "come when i call you" by the klezmatics

“Pesach is soon.”  
“Yes.”  
“My brother… has invited us to the seder.”  
“Even though I am-?”  
“Yes, Jean.”  
“Well, then, I suppose we must go.”  
“Jean.”  
“Yes?”  
“You are under no obligation.”  
“I know.”  
“You are safe. I promise it to you.”  
“Thank you.”

 _“Mon cher.”_  
“Yes, Jean?”  
“Esther- the youngest Esther- has come to visit.”  
“Ah.”  
“I will give up my room, so you do not have to.”  
“Jean. No. I will give up mine. You need rest.”  
“Rest? _Mon cher_ , you know I wou-”  
“Yes, Jean. I know. Still-”  
“I have already talked to Haïm.”  
 _“Jean-”_  
“It is no trouble, Javert!”  
“It’s trouble to me, Jean-”  
“When is the last time you slept-”  
“Last night.”  
 _“-more than four hours.” _  
“... When was it that you read that one book aloud?”  
 _“Javert,”_  
“Fine, then. You will take my room, and I will sleep on the armchair.”  
“No!”  
“Why not?!”  
“Javert-!”  
“It is only fair-”  
 _“Javert.”_  
“Do you have any better ideas?”  
“We could- ah- we could share?”  
“The bed?”  
“Yes?”__

__

__Javert sighed._ _

__“Jean, I do not- ah-”  
“That is fine. Neither do I. Well. I might.”  
“I do not.”  
“Thank you for telling me, _mon cher_.”  
“And you also, Jean.”  
“Of course, _mon_ Javert.”  
“Jean.”  
“Hm?”  
“... Fine. Yes.”  
“Yes?”  
“Yes.”_ _

__

__“Javert?”  
“Yes, Jean?”  
“Why are there so many cups in your room?”  
“... I refuse to answer that question.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haïm _absolutely_ knows what he's doing here
> 
> also i think y'all are going to like learning about esther 3 she's great


	32. la tu kaza. parte vi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> simp ass old men
> 
> i highly recommend la mort des etoiles for this one

“My love.”  
“Yes, Jean?”  
“Javert.”  
“Yes, _mon_ Jean?”  
“I love you. You do not have to say it back.”  
“Jean.”  
“Yes, _mon âme?”_  
“Look.”  
“I’ve- I can’t remember ever seeing them this bright.”  
“Not even-?”  
“No.”  
“I used to look out this window when I was young. The stars still look the same.”  
“Yes?”  
“Look- _les sœurs. Cygne._ Orion. Polaris. Look- Corvus.”  
“Which is your favorite star?”  
“See that one? There is Libra. See the scales? Look at the one with two stars on it. I think I like that one the best.”  
“Javert?”  
“Yes, Jean?”

Valjean kissed Javert’s temple, cradling his cheek with one hand.  
Javert turned his head and pressed a kiss to Valjean’s palm.  
He ducked his head and kissed Valjean’s jaw, very softly.  
Valjean hid his face in Javert’s shoulder.  
He wrapped his arms around Javert, hesitantly, barely touching him, as if afraid of rebuke.  
Javert put his arms around Valjean and held him tight. 

“Jean.”  
“Yes?”

Javert lowered his head and pressed his cheek to Valjean’s temple, pressing a kiss there.  
“I- Jean. _Mon Jean.”_

And Valjean froze, then deflated, sinking into Javert’s shoulder.  
Javert held his beloved as he sobbed in his arms. 

“Jean…?”  
“Yes, _mon etoile?”_  
“It is late. _Mon Jean_. We should sleep.”  
“...Yes.”  
“Jean…”  
“Please do not leave.”  
“I would not dream of it, Jean.”  
“Thank you.”

\---

 _“Mon cher.”_  
_“Eh-?”_  
Javert blinked.  
“Jean?”  
“Good morning, my love. You are beautiful.”  
“Good- _eh?”_  
“I- that is- you are always- no, that is- no- I- ah-”  
_“Toi aussi,_ Jean.”  
“... ah-”  
“Jean?”  
“Yes, love?”  
“What time is it?”  
“Ah… just after dawn?”  
“Jean. Unless you want to get up and face my brother, I suggest we go back to sleep.”  
“... well then. Can I-?”

Javert muttered something incoherent and held out an arm in Valjean’s direction.  
Valjean shifted across the bed and fit himself into the crook of Javert’s shoulder. 

“Javert?”  
“Hmm?”  
“My love?”  
“Yes?”  
“You’re cold!”  
“And you blame _me_ for that?”  
“Well-”  
“There’s nothing I can do about the weather, Jean.”  
“Hm.”

Valjean rested his head against Javert’s chest. He put his arm around Javert. 

“Jean?”  
“Javert?”  
“It’s too early.”  
“It’s dawn.”  
“Exactly.”  
“Javert, you k-”  
_“Yes,_ Jean, I _know.”_  
“...sorry.”  
“No,I mean- just- Jean,”

Javert pulled Valjean closer and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

“Just stay here. Good?”  
“Good.”

“Javert?”  
“Hm?”  
“I love you.”  
“All right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> simp ass old men 
> 
> javert's love language is acts of service, i know this, you know this, 
> 
> valjean's is a lovely little combination of words of affirmation, acts of service, and physical touch, he's a sad little man, i love him,


	33. la tu kaza. parte vii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's free therapy, lads

“So how is it?”  
“What?”  
“Living.”  
“Hard. Easier than it used to be. I never thought I’d see-”  
“You’ve been angry for long enough, Astruc. Life isn’t a burden for you to drag around.”  
“At- at Toulon. I was a guard. They- those men. They were dragged around, forced to carry things far too heavy for them. It was not… not fair.”  
“...oh.”  
“I never thought I would see him like this. See _myself_ like this.”  
“You never think you’re going to live to see the things you live to see.”  
“Hm. I suppose.”  
“Look at you. I think- well. You’re happier than you were when you came here.”  
“With-?”  
“...No. I think Esther tried. You know, she talked to me. After- well.”  
“Do you remember what she said?”  
“G-d, Astruc, how could I forget? She said she’d rather you see her as cruel than to see you both die.”  
“I- I didn’t know.”  
“Moshe tried, too. He was 16. He had to stop school to work, to help you.”  
“Then-”  
“I don’t know. Ask him. He hasn’t taken it well.”  
“That is fair.”  
“Not everything that is fair is easy.”  
“I know. G-d. I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter is going to be something. i apologize in advance,


	34. interlude of horrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for descriptions of a panic attack (?) and self-hatred/negative self-talk
> 
> (okay see- this is really taken from my own experiences with the Shaky, down to the name, so i don't really know if it's a panic attack or what, but I have it on good authority (my friends) that it's close enough. So- if you don't want to read about something that resembles a panic attack, don't read this. This isn't a plot chapter, so you're not missing much)
> 
> i don't have music for this one.  
> anyway.  
> i'd say enjoy but uh-

_fuck._  
Valjean couldn't breathe.  
well, he _could_ , but it was shallow and half the time it felt like he was either holding his breath or fighting his racing heart.  
cold pooled in his stomach.  
his mind raced with thoughts. he wished he could rid himself of them.  
he clutched desperately at his shirtsleeves and rocked back and forth as if the movement would tether him to sanity.  
_fuck._  
The shadow of the past. A ghost. His own looming horrid actions.  
he pulled his sleeves over his hands and rubbed his arms together.  
he counted breaths.  
he rocked back and forth, muttering litanies of empty reassurance to himself.  
_fuck, no, no, **no** , not now, not this, no-  
his hands were shaking (were they? or did they just feel like they should be?) and his breaths were shaking and he couldn’t stop _thinking_ and his focus zeroed in on one single millisecond of information. _

_g-d, what an overdramatic fucking burden. ridiculous. you’re probably exaggerating, anyway._

_it hadn’t even been immediate.  
it was a combination of mentions,  
it was a raised voice,  
it was Javert snapping at him. _

and suddenly he was too young and too old and thoughts of things he hated himself for were flooding his brain, racing and roiling and _oh g-d javert get that away from me_ and it was so much and he was far, far too young and he had come _so far,_ and now it was all for- 

A gentle voice interrupted his thoughts.  
“Jean.”  
“Jean- talk to me.”  
“i- it’s- it- im thinking about how it was, _there,_ and i'm not _there_ like- im not _there_ i’m just thinking about-“  
“Jean.“  
He froze.  
“Tell me about your day.”  
“well, I woke up, and- I had breakfast.”  
“Yes.”  
“And then I gardened then had lunch then sat down to read- and I heard- and now-“  
“What did you hear, Jean?”  
“no, I- I don’t want you t-“  
_“Jean.”_  
“your- you raised your voice. you sounded like- _them_.”  
“.. oh. I’m sorry.”  
“it’s- it was bound t-“  
_“Jean_. No.”  
“please don’t-“  
“...sorry. Do you want me to leave?”  
“...no.”  
“All right. I’ll try to not raise my voice from now on. I’m sorry.”  
“... thank you. you shouldn’t have t-“  
“Jean. _Please_ look at me. I do. and I will. If it makes you suffer less, Jean, then I will do it.”  
“... oh.” 

“Jean?”  
“yes?”  
“Will you-?”  
“Javert, I am already lying half on top of you.”  
“This cannot be comfortable, Jean.”  
“But is it comfortable for y-“  
“Would you _please_ just rest your head on my lap?”  
“...”  
“... my arm is falling asleep.”  
_“oh-“_  
“And _now_ he moves.”  
“Oh, hush.”  
“Better?”  
“yes… I love you, you know.”  
“I don’t know if I can say it in as many words, just yet.”  
“I understand it nonetheless.”  
“Rest, Jean.”  
“All right.”

“You’re still shaking.”  
“It doesn’t stop so easily.”  
“I’m sorry.”

“Jean?”  
“...yes?”  
“What do you call- that thing. that happened.”  
“I- I suppose I never had a word for it. I suppose it’s just everything going a bit shaky.”  
“I see.”  
“Yeah.”  
“Would you mind telling me what triggers it?”

_and there it was again, the cold dread, its vice-grip around his heart, the feeling, his breaths came shallower._

_fuck._

“— I- I- _can’t-_ “  
“...all right. I am sorry for having asked.”  
“I’m sorry, you’re only trying to help-“  
“Jean. Breathe.”  
“I’m _trying-_ ”  
“Here.  
_Un, deux, trois, in. un deux trois, hold. Un, deux, trois, out._  
Un, deux, trois, you’re safe. _Un, deux, trois,_ you’ll be all right. _Un, deux, trois,_ I’m here.  
_Un, deux, trois, in. Un, deux trois-_ better? Don’t speak- _deux, trois. Un, deux, trois._  
_Un, deux, trois, in._ No- _Jean-_ please- _Un, deux, trois. Un, deux trois, out._ ”  
“...”  
“... _deux, trois, hold. Un, deux, trois, out._ Better?”  
“... yes.”  
“All right.” 

_“I- I don’t want to go downstairs.”  
“I’ll bring you some water.”  
“Javert?”  
“Yes?”  
“Please don’t leave.”  
“...all right.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> javert's voice here, especially "jean. Jean- talk to me" and that whole bit, was taken from my dear friend.  
> All the stims Valjean does are taken from my own.  
> this is based heavily on my own experiences with the shaky, so if anything seems off then idk
> 
> anyway. sorry about this one.


	35. la tu kaza. parte ix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've decided to post part viii separately, as it's a bit of a heavy one and i don't want to cause my readers unnecessary distress. If you'd like to read it, it can be found at https://archiveofourown.org/works/29818767
> 
> warnings: implied nightmares, flashbacks

The morning before Pesach, Javert awoke coughing in a way he had not for-  
For months. 

He choked on air as he awoke with a stuttering gasp.  
He clawed at his throat and clutched his ribs, blindly, grasping in the dark.  
His leg felt as shattered as a windowpane, as broken as it had been when Valjean first dragged him from the cold and the dark.  
Panic blurred his vision.  
His ribs ached with a dull heat. 

Every breath stank of silt. 

_En la mar ay una torre.  
La Maison Dieu. XVI. _

_Valjean’s hands, his scars, the sadness in his eyes.  
The way he flinched at slammed doors, how his eyes glazed over and his shoulders tensed at raised voices.  
Valjean’s kindness, his mercy, the needless suffering of who-knows-how-many._  
...Valjean’s fingertips on his wrist. Valjean’s hand on his arm. Valjean’s lips on his forehead.  
Valjean’s voice calling his name.  
“Jean.”  
“Javert- Javert I am sorry, you- I did not know if waking you would make it worse.”  
“I- Jean.”  
“Javert, my love, I am here. You are safe. It is 1833. You are safe. You are safe, I promise you.”

Javert dug his nails into the palms of his hands. 

“Javert- Javert, are you- Can you breathe?”  
“ _Yes_ , Jean, I can _breathe,_ just-”  
“I-am sorry-”  
“No, I-”

_The barricades. The shouting, the gunfire, the stench of death. The Guard, the students- the crowd behind him, surging and roiling and breathing as one. One being torn against itself, yanked to pieces by its own stubbornness.  
Javert did not know who he meant._

“June.”  
“The fifth, my love?”  
“...the- everything.”  
“All right, my beloved.”

Javert tried to get up, winced, and set himself back down.  
“Damn.”  
“Wh-”  
“My- ribs. Damn.”  
“Come here, my love.”

Valjean laid Javert down on his side as he had, those first weeks after the river. He smoothed a hand over Javert’s shoulder, down his side. He pressed his chest to Javert’s back and held him there. He pressed his lips to Javert’s shoulder, over and over and barely lifting his head. 

Eventually, Javert’s breathing evened out. It grew softer, steadier, not harsh and shallow and ragged as before.  
Valjean pressed a last kiss to Javert’s shoulder, next to the small scar he had said was from a particularly nasty arrest.  
“Better, my love?”  
“...yes.”  
“Is it tonight?”  
“eh-?”  
“The- _seder_.”  
He pronounced it with an accent. Javert almost-smiled.  
_“Oui, mon Jean.”_

Valjean blushed, then blanched.  
It would have been a very amusing sight had Javert not been at that moment both overwhelmed with love and mildly concerned. 

“Jean- what-?”  
“Javert- ah- Javert, I have nothing to wear.”  
Javert snorted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this next chapter will be much less painful.


	36. interlude of wonders/ la tu kaza parte x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for my mazal, who this is for and about and dedicated to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "swallow song" by vashti bunyan.

“Do you love him?”  
“I don’t know.”

I think so.   
I don’t know what love is, sometimes.   
I don’t know the shape of it, I don’t know how it smiles at me when it thinks I’m not looking.   
I don’t know the way love would let me take its hand while with the other it writes paragraphs on injustices.   
I don’t know the way it would know me, all my flaws and shortcomings and failures. 

But I think love is a choice. 

It is- more than a choice.   
It is choosing someone, over and over, every day.   
It is making a choice and that choice is them, and that choice is that you would see them happy.   
That choice is getting to know them and through some miracle being known in return.   
That choice is seeing the face of G-d and feeling anything but fear.  
And sometimes it is that, looking back, you see it wasn’t a hard choice to make after all.   
_Do you love him_ , you asked.   
And I think my answer is that I never want to stop.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading


End file.
